


Contact

by Kalimyre



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Paranormal, Skin Hunger, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-10-30 12:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 136,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10877151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: MacCready's done a lot of things for caps, but this has got to be the weirdest job he's ever had.-OR-The one where the sole survivor wants more for her money than just a hired gun.





	1. The Job

**Author's Note:**

> I have a peculiar fascination with touch-starved characters and long, drawn out cuddling. There will be a lot of both.

MacCready is in trouble.

It's not exactly a new experience for him, but this is bad even by his standards. He counts the bullets on his gun belt again - still nineteen. That, plus the three left in the clip, brings him to a grand total of twenty-two. Other than those bullets, his rifle, and the clothes on his back, he's flat broke.

He's seriously debating trading his few remaining bullets for a little food. He hasn't eaten for three days and if he doesn't get something soon, the bullets won't do him any good anyway. He'll be too weak to shoot straight. His other usual alternative when he gets hungry is to lift whatever shiny trinket might be lying around, but if he gets caught stealing in Goodneighbor again, Hancock is going to kick him out of town.

He doesn't have any particular fondness for Goodneighbor, but since Winlock and Barnes tracked him down, staying in town is his ticket to staying alive.

Someone at the Third Rail bar is eating radstag steak; he can smell it from the back room. His stomach clenches and then rolls over uneasily, caught somewhere between hunger and nausea. His hands are shaking and he's got a pounding headache; cold sweat pops up on the back of his neck. MacCready grits his teeth and goes through his pockets again. Maybe he missed something.

A soft footstep catches his attention and he jerks his head up warily. If it's Winlock and Barnes again, he might be screwed. He's in no shape to take them in a fight; he's just lucky they didn't call his bluff about taking it outside the last time they were here.

It's not them, though - a woman stands in the doorway to the back room. She looks, if possible, worse than he feels. Painfully thin, ashen faced and swaying like a drunk. There's fresh blood spattered on her armor; maybe hers, maybe not. She's staring at him with a peculiar fixed expression, made more intense by the gauntness of her face and the dark hollows beneath her eyes.

He pegs her immediately as just another Goodneighbor junkie, strung out on chems and looking for the next fix. She's got that telltale glaze to her eyes, and he can see her trembling from here. "Look, lady," he says, impatient. "If you're preaching about the Atom, or looking for a friend, you've got the wrong guy. I don't have any handouts."

She says nothing, just stares at him. He doesn't think she's blinked since she entered the room and it's starting to creep him out. She's drifting closer, legs wobbling beneath her like she's going to hit the floor any second. He wrinkles his nose - she's got a weird sickly-sweet smell around her that he associates with disease.

MacCready narrows his eyes when he spots the gleam of well-oiled gunmetal at her hip. A highly modified 10mm, with a smooth grip and a long suppressor. She's got full clips of several ammo types neatly tucked into belts that cross her chest and he can see the stock of a shotgun poking over her shoulder. Her armor is sleek leather, well fitted and dark, whisper quiet as she moves. She's carrying what looks to be a well-laden pack, although he's not sure how she's managing the weight since she can barely stay upright. She's clearly not all there, but maybe she's got caps to spare after all.

He puts on a slightly friendlier expression. "If you need a hired gun, though... then maybe we can talk."

She nods. "Yes," she says. "I want to hire you. Let me see your hands."

He stares at her. "What?"

"Your hands." She holds out her own, curling her fingers up in an impatient gesture. "Let me see. So I know if you can do the job."

MacCready shakes his head. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Please," she says. "I have caps. I can pay you." The way she speaks is strange, clipped off sentences like every word is costing her too much effort. Her expression is almost pleading. "Just. Your hands. Let me see. It won't take long."

"I don't take orders unless I'm getting paid," he says. "Up front."

She digs into her pocket blindly, never taking her eyes off him. He can hear the familar click of caps. She dumps a handful on the table without bothering to count them. He schools his expression - there's enough to feed him for a week, if he's careful, but he doesn't want to look too eager. He stuffs them in his jacket before she can change her mind.

She holds her hands out again, expectant.

He hesitates. "I'm really not getting why this is necessary."

"It is. I paid you. Should I take the money back?"

He scowls. "Fine," he mutters, then reaches out, watching her closely for any sudden moves. She leans in and clutches his hands, wrapping her fingers around his palms and holding on tight. She makes a low, choked sound and sways, then topples sideways in a controlled fall, landing on the couch in a heap and dragging him with her. They wind up side by side, awkwardly twisted toward each other, joined hands on the cushion between them.

She's breathing hard, and she curls foward on the couch, dipping until he can feel the tickle of her breath across his knuckles.

"No biting," he says, because he has now upgraded his assessment of her from _junkie_ to _total nutcase_.

She huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh. "No biting," she agrees. She seems content to sit there, hunched over, relaxing by slow degrees. He can see the tension run out of her back, her shoulders curving into a gentle slope and her body sinking limply into the battered couch. She rests her cheek on their laced fingers and rubs against them like a cat.

"Okay," he says after a minute. "So, I'm going to need those back eventually."

She hums a little but otherwise ignores him.

MacCready looks around the room, glad nobody is there to witness this because seriously, _what the hell?_ He tugs a little, and her grip immediately tightens. Aside from her iron grasp on his hands, she's still and quiet. Her breathing has steadied and the trembling has stopped. He pulls harder, twisting his wrists. "Time's up," he says.

She sighs and straightens, lifting her head. He leans back, startled - she looks markedly different. The grayish pallor is gone from her skin and her gaze is sharp and lucid. She squeezes his hands once more and then lets him go with obvious reluctance. He pulls away fast.

"What was that all about?" he asks. He rubs his hands together, trying to get a little feeling back in his fingers. She's surprisingly strong.

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Call it a job interview." Even her voice is calmer, steadier.

"That was the weirdest job interview ever. Just saying."

The corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile. "Just wait," she says. "It's going to get weirder."

MacCready doesn't find that reassuring. "Okay," he replies slowly. "Anyway. The price is 250 caps. Again, up front. And there's no room for bargaining."

"The job I have in mind is a little more complicated." She tilts her head to one side and gives him a quick once-over. "You're hungry. Let's talk about it over dinner. I'm buying."

His stomach growls embarrasingly loud and he feels his face heat. "Yeah, okay," he agrees. If nothing else, at least he's getting a free meal - he's hungry enough to put up with a lot of weirdness for that.

She leads him into the main bar area and tells him to get whatever he wants from Charlie. He orders a ridiculous amount of food. She pays without hassling him about it.

He barely pauses to breathe as he wolfs down the first plate - he has to muffle a moan of relief when the food hits his empty stomach. He's been hungry plenty of times in his life, but somehow he always forgets just how miserable it is. She sits across from him, sipping water and listening to Magnolia sing. She gives no indication that she's bothered by the way he shovels the food down.

He's halfway through the second plate before he slows down enough to start wondering how she knew he was hungry. For that matter, he's not sure why she was willing to buy him food when she's clearly not interested in eating anything herself. He gives her a sidelong glance; she looks steady and calm - the strung out chem-head from twenty minutes ago has disappeared. Everything about her has been confusing so far and that doesn't seem likely to change anytime soon. He doesn't like it; it makes him feel off-balance. Plus, that whole thing with the hands was just _strange_. He's not real eager to work for crazy, but it's not like he's got a lot of options.

MacCready leans back, opening his beer and taking a long swallow. She takes this as a cue that it's time to talk business.

"So," she says. "What does 250 caps buy me, exactly?"

He gives her a cocky grin. "The best sniper in the Commonwealth."

"Really?" she asks. "If that's true, then I'm interested."

"Oh, it's true." He picks a little at the mirelurk cake on his plate, then looks up at her. "What about you? How do I know I won't end up with a bullet in my back?"

"If I decide to shoot you," she says, "it won't be in the back."

"Oh," he says after a moment. "Great."

"So, the sniper thing, we'll call that job one," she says briskly. She rummages in her pack and pulls out a scrap of paper and a pencil. She writes it down: Job 1 - Sniper - 250 caps. She turns the paper so he can see and gives him a questioning look. "Okay?"

"Fine," he says, "but we don't need a contract. You point and I shoot, pretty simple arrangement."

She smiles. "Like I said, it gets weirder."

"Weirder than that thing with the hands? Because seriously boss, wow."

"Boss," she echoes. "I like that. Anyway, yes. I know that was weird, believe me. I'm very aware. And thank you for going along with it. I think it's pretty obvious how much it helped me."

Which is true - she looks a hell of a lot better now. She even smells better. What he can't figure out is _why_ holding his hands for a few minutes would somehow fix whatever was wrong with her. MacCready shakes his head. "Yeah, I don't get that."

"I know." She sighs and scrubs a hand through her hair. "It's complicated, and frankly, I'm not planning on explaining it. You're going to have to take a lot on faith here."

"Faith," he scoffs. "Right."

"As long as you get paid, do you really need to know the reasons?"

He thinks about that for a minute and shrugs. "Guess not. So what's job two, then?"

"Lessons," she replies. "Specifically, sniper lessons. I'm good with short range weapons, and I'm handy with a knife, but my long distance needs work. As long as you're traveling with me, I will want regular training."

"Fine," he says, a little relieved. That's an easy one; he likes showing off his skill, and working with someone who wants to learn can be a lot of fun. "And is this a paying job too?"

She chuckles. "It's all paying work, don't worry. For this one, I'll keep you supplied with food, stimpaks, and ammo - plus you get a cut of any valuable salvage or caps we find."

"How much of a cut?"

"Half," she says. "But I get first pick of unique weapons and armor."

MacCready raises his eyebrows. A half-share is far more generous than he expected. "What's the catch?"

"Well," she says, drawing out the word. "We're coming to that." She takes her time writing down the terms for job two on the scrap of paper. Then she takes a swallow of her water, avoiding his eyes. He waits, already feeling a curl of disappointment in his belly. This is all sounding too good to be true and he has the sense it's about to fall apart.

Finally, she sighs and sits up straight in her chair, giving him a long, level stare. "The catch is job three. It's contact."

"Contact," he repeats, shaking his head. "What does that mean?"

She slides her hand across the table, holding it out to him, palm up. He leans back and crosses his arms pointedly over his chest. She pulls her hand away, a rueful twist to her mouth. "Yeah," she says. "You know what it means. Like the hands, but more. I'll expect it whenever I ask, and I'll be asking often. That includes when we're sleeping."

And there it is. MacCready pushes his chair back from the table. "Should've known," he mutters. "Look, plenty of people in Goodneighbor are selling what you're buying. I'm not one of them."

"I'm not talking about sex," she says sharply. "Sit down and listen."

He pauses, halfway out of his chair, hesitating. It's the memory of hunger that pulls him back down. That, and his nineteen bullets. He's in no position to be picky. "So what _are_ you talking about?"

"Literally just contact," she says. "Sex is completely off the table. Not happening. What I'm looking for is something else. Call it whatever you want - sharing body heat, touching, cuddling, whatever. Doesn't matter. It's what I need to... to be okay. Clothes stay on, if that makes you feel better."

"I just... I don't get it," he says. "If that's all you're after, you could probably get it for free from half the people in here."

She shakes her head. "Nothing's free. They'd have expectations. There would be strings attached. I don't want that. I'm looking for a clean, simple business arrangement. That's why I want a merc. I get what I need and you get paid and everyone's happy."

He thinks about it, idly pushing the remains of his dinner around on the plate. He's done some things for money that he's not proud of, sure. He's crossed plenty of lines. There have even been lean times where he's thought about selling more than just his skill with a rifle. It's not like she's asking for anything terrible - he used to sleep curled together with the others for warmth and comfort all the time in Little Lamplight. If he's being honest, sometimes he misses it. If all she wants is someone next to her in the bed, and maybe a little hand-holding from time to time, is that so hard?

MacCready looks across the table at her. She looks back, and she must read something in his expression, because a small smile sneaks across her lips. "I did warn you that it was weird," she says.

"Yeah, no kidding," he says. "This better pay _really_ well."

For this, he gets a broad grin. She has shockingly white teeth, straight and clean in a way he's never seen before. "Let's talk price." She taps the contract. "You were willing to get shot at for 250 caps - a little cuddling should be a breeze. How about a hundred?"

He shakes his head. "You said yourself this is something you need. And you know it's not exactly normal. Weird shi... stuff is more expensive. I want one-fifty."

"Deal," she says, so quickly he realizes he could have asked for more. She's already writing it down. She signs the contract with a messy scrawl, unlike the rest of her neat, angular handwriting, and pushes it across the table to him.

He looks down at it. Job 3 - Contact - 150 caps. That brings his grand total up to 400, more caps than he's ever had at once. Plus that half share of the haul on whatever jobs they do; if he plays his cards right, he stands to make a whole lot of money. He signs quick, before he can have any second thoughts.

She beams at him and tucks the contract away in her pack. Then she extends her hand across the table again.

He looks at it for a moment. Somehow it hasn't quite sunk in that she's serious about this. It feels like an elaborate practical joke. He glances around the room, but no one is paying them any attention. And even if they were, so what? He's in a bar, having a beer, about to hold the hand of the pretty woman sitting with him. It's not exactly scandalous. It's only strange for him because he doesn't know her and he's not the type of guy who gets physical with random people in bars. That requires a degree of trust he just doesn't have.

Still, he did agree to this. He doesn't go back on his deals. So MacCready takes her hand, relieved when she doesn't push any further than that. She just gives him a little squeeze and then turns in her chair to watch Magnolia sing.

He's grateful for the chance to process a little. He feels like she blew into his life like a tornado and his head is still spinning. He's still not sure what kind of jobs they'll be doing. Something lucrative, he hopes. He sends caps back to the friends who are taking care of Duncan for him every chance he gets, and lately there haven't been many chances. He's constantly aware of time slipping through his fingers; every day he's struggling to scrape together enough resources to get that cure is another day that Duncan has to fight his illness. Another day closer to losing that fight.

He suppresses a shudder, pushing the thought away. He can't even let himself imagine it. Across the table, his new boss looks at him sharply. "You okay?"

"Fine," he says. "So do you have a name, or what?"

She smiles. "Emma."

~~~


	2. It Gets Weirder

It doesn't take long for MacCready to start feeling sleepy. He's warm and well-fed, an unusual combination for him, and the music is low and soothing. He's been sleeping wherever he can; Goodneighbor is a fairly friendly town for drifters, and nobody blinks an eye at another person sleeping in the alley. Still, it's not exactly restful and being cold, hungry, and worried hasn't helped. The meal has made him feel a lot better; his headache has eased back to a low thudding instead of the sharp spike it had been before, but his eyes are grainy with exhaustion and mostly he just wants to fold his arms on the table and put his head down for a few minutes.

Emma is still holding his hand, so he props his chin up with his other hand and tries to keep his eyes open. He's not going to impress the new boss much if he falls asleep on the job.

"Hey," she says, and he starts a little, twitching.

"M'awake," he mumbles. "What?"

She snorts. "Yeah, I can see that. Come on, I need to talk to Charlie about a job, but after that, we'll get some rest."

He shakes off the sleepiness and follows her up to the bar. Charlie is doing what he always does, endlessly cleaning the same glasses and wiping down the same section of faded countertop. His robotic eyes focus on MacCready for a moment before swiveling to look at Emma. "You ready to hear about that job?" he asks. "Or you turnin' up your nose to a bit of violence?"

"I'm interested," Emma says. "What's the job?"

MacCready smiles to himself. At least she doesn't seem like the type to shy away from the dirty work.

"I got a certain anonymous client who's payin' top dollar for a cleanup job," Charlie says. "Three locations. Everyone inside. No witnesses. Only catch? It's all in town, in the old warehouses, so I can't use my regulars. Too noticable. That's where you come in. The job's 200 caps. Payment _after_ it's done. And don't worry, I'll know when it is."

"I'm not interested in crossing Hancock. Is he going to have a problem with this?"

If Charlie could roll his eyes, he would. "Not like it's a big secret who I represent. Who do you think the client is? Mayor Hancock is the one paying the caps for this. Something political, you know how it is. It's not your problem - just do the job, and get paid. That simple."

MacCready watches, waiting to see what she'll do. It's a lowball offer and he knows it - Charlie would never lead with his top price. Looks like she knows it too, because she scoffs. "Three locations? That's a lot of time... a lot of bullets..."

"I guess we could sweeten the pot a bit. Two-fifty," Charlie says.

"Too low," Emma shoots back. "Barely covers the risks."

Charlie hesitates, then concedes. "Alright. Three hundred."

Emma doesn't stop there. "More. Money. Charlie," she insists. MacCready tenses beside her, sure she's about the blow the whole thing. Three hundred is already high for a simple cleanup job and Charlie has got to be losing patience.

There's a taut pause, and then Charlie grumbles, "Givin' me a right kick in the Alberts... fine, we'll make it four hundred, but that's as high as I'm going."

Emma grins. "Deal. I'll take care of it."

"You better," Charlie says. "Now go out there and bust some heads."

She turns away, shouldering her pack and heading up the stairs. MacCready follows, still a little dazed at the amount she'd managed to milk out of Charlie. It's his whole up front fee, for both the sniper work and... well, the other thing. And she might make it all back in one night. He's not sure if he should feel impressed, or just cheap.

They cross the street and make a beeline for the Rexford; she's hurrying now, her strides long and purposeful. He doesn't really make the connection until she's paid for a room and he's standing just inside the doorway, staring at the single bed.

"Oh," he says. "I, uh... aren't we doing that warehouse job?"

"Later," she says. "It's not even dark out yet. We're going to be breaking and entering. That's the type of work I'd rather do in the middle of the night." She glances at him over her shoulder. "Besides, you're tired. There's going to be fighting and I want you well-rested."

He nods. She's stripping out of her armor, unbuckling each piece and laying it down in a neat row. She's wearing some kind of fitted jumpsuit underneath and it doesn't leave much to the imagination. He looks away, clearing his throat.

She digs in her pack and starts pulling out little canvas bags, each tied with a twist of wire. "These are the caps I owe you," she says. "I keep them separated into counted bags to keep things neat. There are fifty in each bag." She lines up eight of the bags on the nightstand. He watches, wondering how much more she's got in that pack. Who just carries around that many caps at once?

She pulls some clothes out and heads toward the bathroom. "I'm going to get cleaned up. Feel free to count them."

He perches on the edge of the bed, looking at the little row of cap bags. He thinks about counting one, just to be sure, but his gut says she's not lying to him. Besides, she just left him here with her pack. Her armor and guns - everything valuable she's got - and it's all just sitting there. He could scoop it all up and be halfway out of town before she knew it. That's either a lot of trust or a really dumb move, and she doesn't strike him as stupid.

He takes all the caps she left out for him and stuffs them in his pockets, but he doesn't touch her things. This is definitely the weirdest job he's ever had, but it's still a _good_ job - hell of a lot better than working for the Gunners. He doesn't want to screw it up.

MacCready takes off his hat and toes off his boots, but he leaves everything else on. He flops back on the bed with a low groan. His back aches and his feet hurt and the mattress is not exactly the softest thing ever, but it's still a big improvement over huddling in the alley. At least he's got a roof over his head and a locked door to make him feel a little safer.

He only means to close his eyes for a minute, but he's half asleep when the bathroom door opens and Emma comes out. She glances at him but doesn't comment. She's scrubbed clean, hair still wet and skin reddened with the cold water. She's wearing jeans and a tee-shirt and she pads barefoot across the room. She climbs into bed beside him with no hesitation or embarassment - it's all very businesslike and matter-of-fact and that somehow that makes it easier. A little less awkward, anyway.

Emma stretches out with a pleased sigh, arms over her head and toes pointed down, and then turns toward him. "Like this," she says. She tugs his arm until he turns on his side, and then she tucks herself against him, her back to his chest. She wraps his arm around her waist and wriggles a little, getting comfortable. He tries not to move.

"Relax," she says. "Breathe. A little spooning isn't going to kill you."

"Yeah, this hasn't gotten any less weird, boss."

She chuckles. "You'll get used to it."

He takes a deep breath and tries to loosen up. It's uncomfortable having her pressed close like this - a lot more intimate than hand holding, even if they are both fully dressed. She's still basically a stranger and he's not sure he likes sleeping next to her. At least she's making it easier by being so direct about it. He feels like he knows exactly what she wants, if not why. She told him the job and now she's showing him how to do the job, right down to positioning his arms the way she wants them. There's no guesswork, which is a relief.

On the other hand, the whole thing still doesn't make much sense, but that's not so different from taking orders from the Gunners. He often didn't know who he was shooting or why when he worked for them, and it never sat right with him. He might not understand this job either, but he's done worse things for less money. For now, he doesn't have to worry about who he might be hurting, which is a nice change of pace.

Emma's breathing has already fallen into a slow, steady rhythm. He can feel the soft press against his chest every time she inhales. He closes his eyes, sagging a little as tension runs out of him. He tells himself he'll only sleep for a little while.

~~~

He's awoken by the sound of a sharp indrawn breath and Emma sits bolt upright beside him. MacCready jerks up as well, heart lurching in his chest as he looks around the dim room. "What, what is it?" he asks, eyes still blurry with sleep.

"Wow," she says, and weirdly, she staring at her hands, twisting them back and forth and wiggling her fingers a little. "This is amazing!"

"Huh?" MacCready looks around and tries to get his bearings. It's late; the air is still and quiet and has the particular chill he associates with the small hours of the morning.

Emma doesn't seem to hear him. She pitches over the side of the bed and her feet hit the floor with a thump. She begins pacing rapidly back and forth, bouncing up on her toes with each step. She's still looking at her hands. "So _bright_ ," she mumbles, shaking her head. "Seriously, I can't believe this happened so fast." She turns and looks at MacCready, and a wide, astonished grin splits her face. "It's incredible! I knew it would help, after your hands had such an impact I knew that there would be improvements but I had no _idea_... and we didn't even sleep that long!" She peers at her Pip-Boy, squinting as it lights up. "Like five or six hours maybe. And with minimal skin contact, just proximity, this is so... wow!"

MacCready blinks, watching her pace. "Uh... are you okay?"

She barrels on like he didn't speak. "None of the others were anywhere near this effective. I mean, I figured when I saw your glow that you'd be something different but this, this is, I can't even tell you. So _much_."

He tries to parse what she's saying - she's speaking way too fast. "My what? Glow?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing, never mind. Just, I could, I don't know what I could do right now. I feel like I could go run a marathon or something. Man, those guys in the warehouses are in _so much trouble_." She laughs with pure glee. "This is awesome! You, you're amazing, do you know that? How did you do this? You don't even know what you did, do you?"

He shakes his head. "What are you _on_?"

"What? Nothing," she says absently. "I don't like chems."

"Sure," MacCready says. "So why are you high?"

"I'm not." She cocks her head, actually looking puzzled. "I never use chems. What are you talking about?"

"This," he says, gesturing at her - she's still pacing, so full of energy he can almost see it crackling around her like a radstorm. "Boss, you're kinda freaking me out."

She frowns, slowing a little. "I'm not... I don't mean to. It's just..." She sighs and runs both hands through her hair. After being washed and slept on wet, it's already a lopsided mess of curls and she manages to make it worse. "Sorry," she mutters. "I guess I am a little over the top right now, huh?"

"A little," he echoes dryly.

She laughs, quieter this time. "I feel good," she says. "It's been so long since I just felt... good, you know?"

He shrugs, because he's still pretty baffled by the whole thing. "Sure."

"Look, I can't really explain it." She finally stands still, but she can't seem to wipe the wide smile off her face. "This is a positive thing, though. Part of your job - a big part - is to keep me healthy. To give me what I need. And so far, you are _kicking ass_ at doing that. So, you know, take it as a compliment."

"Well... alright then," he says, not sure how to respond. He didn't actually _do_ anything and he shifts a little on the bed, awkward.

She rubs a hand over her stomach and her eyes widen. "Whoa," she says. "I think I'm _hungry_. No way." She bounces on her toes again, shooting him an excited glance. "No _way_! Seriously?" She crouches beside her pack and starts digging through it, tossing things aside haphazardly.

"Are you... glad about being hungry? Cause I gotta tell you, it's not my favorite thing."

She laughs. "I've had no appetite at all for weeks. I kept eating because, you know, I wanted to not die, but I had to force it. Eventually I had to stop because I couldn't keep anything down anymore."

"Oh," MacCready says. That explains why he could feel the scrawny line of her shoulders and the jut of her ribs when she'd lain down beside him.

"I know I had something... ha!" She pulls out a half-crushed box of sugar bombs from the bottom of her pack and scoops out a handful. She takes a cautious bite, and he can see a look of wonder spread across her face. "Holy shit," she whispers. "I can actually _taste_ it."

"Is that not how eating normally works for you?"

"It hasn't worked like that for a while," she replies absently, through a mouthful of food. "Wow, these are sweet. I mean, they're called 'sugar bombs' so I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but for two hundred year old food, this isn't half bad."

He nods, watching her gulp down stale cereal like it's the best meal she's ever had. "Look, it's great that you're feeling better and all, but at some point I'm gonna need some answers."

Her expression shutters. "You're fine. You know enough."

"Yeah, no," he says. "You said it's part of my job to keep you healthy, but how am I supposed to do that if I don't know how any of this is helping you? This... the whole contact thing, or whatever, it's not _magic_. You looked like you had about a week left to live when you came into the Third Rail last night, and now you're bouncing off the walls and going on about how terrific you feel and it seriously doesn't make any sense."

"I already told you I don't plan on explaining it." She drops the empty cereal box and shoots to her feet. "That was the deal. Don't worry about being able to do the job. You're doing it and it's working. Just keep following orders and we won't have any problems."

"Sure, until you get hurt or something and I don't know how to help you because you haven't told me how any of this works."

"I'm not from another planet," she snaps. "Stimpaks work on me just like anyone else. I'll tell you what I need when I need it. That's all you have to know."

He throws his hands up, frustrated. "Fine. Whatever you say, boss."

"That's right." She scowls, then sighs, softening. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you, anyway. I feel like I've given very clear directions so far. You don't have to try and figure this out, just listen and do as I ask. I know this is weird. You don't know me and you have questions, I get that."

"Yeah, only about a million," he says.

"This is new to me, too," she replies. She keeps trying to catch his eye but he's not willing to meet her halfway just yet. "Be patient. Although I can tell that's not exactly your strong suit."

He snorts, smiling a little in spite of himself. "Not really, no."

"This is going to be okay," she says, and he's not sure which one of them she's trying to convince.

He just shrugs and busies himself with putting his boots on. This conversation isn't going anywhere. "We going to hit those warehouses tonight or what?"

She seems relieved at the subject change. "I'll get changed." She turns on her heel, scooping up her jumpsuit and armor on the way to the bathroom.

MacCready puts on his hat and picks up his rifle. He eyes the random crap strewn all over the room, a little amazed that it had all fit inside her pack. Some of it makes sense - ammo and stimpaks, spare clothes, what looks like some radstag jerky and a few stray bags of caps. The rest of it is just weird; old telephones and empty glass bottles mixed in with dented metal cans and containers of wonder glue.

Figures, of course, that the contents of her pack would be just as strange as she is.

"How are you set for bullets?" she asks, emerging from the bathroom. She's all but invisible in the dim room; her jumpsuit and her armor are both charcoal gray. Her hair is tied back and she looks calm and serious again, the earlier manic energy compressed into something manageable.

"I could use a few more," MacCready admits.

"You take .308s, right?" She pokes through the pile of junk and comes up with a box of ammo, which she tosses at him. "Here. Let me know if you need more. Got any stimpaks?"

He shakes his head and she pushes three of them into his hands, and then seems to think better of it and gives him five more. He frowns. "You know, the point of using a long range weapon is to _not_ get shot," he says.

"We're going to be fighting in an enclosed space," she replies. "I'd rather you have too many of them than not enough. Don't be shy about using them, either. If you get hurt, treat it right away. I hoard the damn things, I have plenty."

"Yeah, I see that. I'm not sure how you're going to carry all this junk."

She grins. "I'm not. Welcome to life as a pack mule, MacCready."

"Real funny," he mutters, but he accepts the bundle of cloth she hands him. It turns out to be another rucksack, light canvas stretched over a metal frame to put some of the weight on his hips instead of just his shoulders. He fiddles with the straps, making sure the pack is snug and well balanced and he can still sight down his rifle scope comfortably. "Anything particular you want me to carry?"

"Grab whatever," she says. "I don't care. We'll probably pick up more on the job and I'm planning to sell most of it before we leave town."

He loads up his bag, careful not to pick up any of her little sacks of caps. He's a thief, sure, but not the kind that steals from his employer. He knows better than to bite the hand that feeds him.

She picks up her pistol and checks the clip, then tucks it into the holster at her side. The shotgun goes against her back, the stock sticking up where she can grab it quickly. She waits for him by the door. "Ready?"

_Here goes nothing_ , he thinks. "Let's go."

~~~


	3. Getting Some Action

It's nearly one in the morning, which is prime time on the streets of Goodneighbor. There's a party on every corner; he can hear the clink of bottles and the hiss of someone taking a hit of jet. The neon casts a weird pink glow, reflecting off pavement wet with rain. They pass at least three people sleeping in the trash, huddled against the buildings and trying to stay dry, and MacCready is grateful that he's not one of them tonight.

The door to the first warehouse sits in a recessed alcove, which makes life a little easier. Emma glances around, then crouches. "Watch my back," she says, pulling out a bobby pin.  
He does, but nobody seems interested in what they're doing. That's one thing he likes about Goodneighbor - it's full of people who know how to mind their own business. There's a soft click, and he hears her make a pleased sound as the door opens.

"Nice," he says.

"I'm full of surprises."

"Yeah, no kidding," he murmurs under his breath. She goes in low, moving slow and quiet, pistol drawn. He follows suit, rifle up, watching where he puts his feet. He's careful to shut the door behind them, easing it closed until the latch catches silently.

She pauses just inside and looks around - it's a small entryway with stairs just off to the left and it looks empty to him, but he waits. This is her show now.

"Okay," she whispers. "There are nine or ten of them in the building. We'll go floor by floor. Keep it as quiet as you can. I'd like to clear out most of them without raising the alarm. You got a suppressor for that rifle?"

"No," he says. "How do you know how many there are? I don't see anyone."

She ignores the question. "Stay with me and shoot if you have to, but try to let me get most of them with the pistol. They're all going to come running once they hear your rifle."

She's moving before he can argue. She swings right first, keeping close to the wall, and stops at an open doorway. She leans over, tugging at his sleeve to bring him close. Her breath tickles when she whispers in his ear, and he shivers, his skin prickling with goosebumps. "There's one just on the other side of that door. He's sleeping. I'm going to do this quiet."

She pulls out a knife and slips through the door; he follows, and sees that she's right. A guard, probably, but he's sleeping on the job, sitting on the floor with his head tipped back, a submachine gun cradled in his lap. His throat is an exposed, obvious target and she doesn't hesitate.

MacCready can't help wincing a little - he's no stranger to killing, but there's a reason he prefers to work at a distance. At least she's smart enough to cut in the right direction; the blood sprays against the wall but she doesn't get any on her.

She gives him an unreadable glance. "One down."

He nods. They creep up the stairs, and she pauses just as their heads come level with the floor above. He can see feet - he counts three people, and they're walking around. No easy sleeping targets this time. The stairwell is dark and they're flattened against the wall, but all it would take is one of them deciding to wander this way and they'll be spotted.

"There's one in the other room," she murmurs, so low he can barely make out the words. "When these start hitting the floor, he's going to notice. Watch that doorway to the left and get him when he comes through."

MacCready bites back his questions (how the _hell_ does she know where everyone is? X-ray vision?) and lines up the shot.

Beside him, she lifts her pistol and breathes out. She hits the closest one first, a clean headshot that drops him like a stone. The other two shout in alarm, raising their weapons, but she's already aiming for the next one. She catches him in the chest, then the shoulder, then the knee. He goes down screaming, his voice trailing off into the telltale choked gasps of a punctured lung.

MacCready hears panicked footsteps, and the one she predicted steps right into his sights. He squeezes off a round, the report of the rifle thunderingly loud in the small space. It's a perfect shot, upper chest; they're all dressed like they're supposed to be gansters or something, in ratty suits and no armor. He collapses without a sound, sprawled in an ungainly heap in the doorway. MacCready turns, aiming for the third man, but she's already drawn a bead on him and taken him down with a gutshot.

He's wailing, clutching at his stomach and trying frantically to lift his weapon. She darts forward and finishes him with a round to the back of the head. Above them, he hears shouting and the thud of running feet.

"This way," she hisses, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the stairwell. They take cover behind a chunk of collapsed concrete pillar. She looks up at the ceiling, eyes tracking back and forth like she's watching them. "These ones are a little smarter," she says. "Not rushing down here to get shot."

"How are you... yeah, you're not going to tell me," MacCready says.

She grins at him. She's having _fun_. It's a little unnerving. "Let's wait them out. Should've left that last one alive a bit longer. He was making enough noise to draw them down."

"You're kind of terrifying," he says, and she laughs.

"I couldn't have done this yesterday," she says. "I'm only terrifying because I'm finally in good shape again, so really, you only have yourself to blame."

"Thanks, I feel so much better."

She snickers, but then jerks her head up, sobering quickly. "Get down. They're going to rush us."

He's already learning that she tends to be right about these things and he obeys, making himself as small as possible behind their cover. There's a click and a rattle, and then the distinctive low drone of a frag grenade priming. He covers his head and curls into a tight ball. The exposion is deafening and debris ricochets against the concrete, raining down around them. The floor groans ominously, creaking and shifting. The air is filled with plaster dust and smoke and he can hear the hammering of machine gun fire over the ringing in his ears. Bullets spark and ping off the exposed metal rebar in the walls.

She leans around the edge of their cover and fires three careful shots, the soft _chuff-chuff_ of her silenced pistol buried in all the other noise. MacCready keeps low, risking a quick glance out the other side. He can see three of them moving closer, with one more in the back laying down covering fire. One of them is bleeding from the shoulder, his arm hanging useless at his side - one of her shots must have hit home.

MacCready ducks back down, waits a beat, and then leans out with his rifle aimed at the one in back. He only has to correct a little - the man is foolishly standing still, and at this range, makes for an easy target. He goes for the headshot. One of the others returns fire and a hot streak scores his arm, but it's a flesh wound and he ignores it, flying high enough on the adrenaline that he barely feels the pain.

Emma is still shooting; she's careful with her shots, choosing and aiming each one. Not the spray and pray type, which he appreciates. Ammo isn't cheap. She likes body shots; she's noticed the lack of armor, just like he has, and she's not shy about taking advantage of it.   
She finishes off the one she wounded earlier, and MacCready gets another one, popping up to take the shot and then dropping again as bullets whizz over his head. The last one takes cover, yelling useless threats at them.

"You okay?" she asks, nodding at his blood-soaked sleeve.

"Fine," he says. "Only winged me."

She nods. "I'm going to move up. Cover me."

He lifts his rifle and looks around the edge of the column. She comes around the other side, low to the ground and quick. MacCready spots the barrel of a gun poking out from behind an overturned desk, but he can tell she sees it too - her pistol is trained on the desk and she's careful about her angles, making it impossible for the gunman to hit her without leaving cover.

MacCready sees the muzzle of the gun shift and adjusts his aim, peering down his scope. He hardly needs it at this close range, but it allows him to see the man's hair poking above the edge of the desk. He knows exactly where his head is, and as it pops up, tracking Emma, he hits the target right between the eyes.

She pauses, then lowers her pistol. "Damn," she says. "Okay, I'm impressed."

He bounces up on his feet, grinning. "Told you."

"You were showing off," she says. "Admit it."

He shrugs, his arm stinging at the movement. "Maybe a little."

She starts to smile, but then an alarmed look washes over her face and she spins, lifting her weapon. He raises his automatically, moving to her side. "What is it?" he asks, quiet.

"There's one more on the top floor." She narrows her eyes, posture tense and wary. "This one is dangerous. He knows we're here and he's waiting for us. Drawing us in. Letting us think we're safe." She keeps her voice low.

"Where is he?"

She looks back and forth, squinting. "I can't quite... it's fading in and out. He's a little too far away."

MacCready isn't sure how she does this particular trick, but on impulse, he grabs her hand. It seemed to help when they met; maybe it will work now. She draws in a quick breath and then squeezes his fingers. "Perfect," she says. "You're a genius. I've got him now - there, northwest corner. He's calm, alert. Confident. He thinks he's well covered, so he probably is. We need to suprise him."

He's willing to take her word for it. "Do you have any explosives? I've got an idea."

She looks at him, and then follows his gaze to the corner of the room. "I like the way you think."

They have to move quickly before he gets suspicious and comes looking for them, but if she's right about him having a good entrenched position, he won't be eager to leave it. She flicks wary glances toward the ceiling as they work. It's tricky to move furniture quietly, but they manage to carry over a chair with a minmum of noise. He's taller, so he stands on it, following her gestured directions. He can just barely reach the ceiling. His heart is in his throat as he carefully places the frag mine and then stretches a strip of duct tape over it. He arms the mine, the telltale yellow lights flickering to life with a low hum. He's painfully aware that he's got no armor and there's nothing at all to stop this thing from tearing him to tiny bits if he fumbles it.

He sighs in relief when the tape holds, and he gets off the chair, hands trembling. "Is it in the right place?" he whispers, face close to hers.

She nods. "Right under him." They hustle across the room and get behind a tipped over table. He looks down his scope, exhaling slowly, waiting for aim to grow steady. The mine looks incredibly close through the scope and he reminds himself that they are behind cover, at a safe distance. Her hand rests on his shoulder and he settles, feeling the familiar shooter's calm creep over him, cold and detached.

The explosion is loud, bright, and satisfying. A big chunk of the ceiling collapses into several pieces. The last triggerman comes with it - also in several pieces.

MacCready looks at Emma, eyebrows raised in a question.

"No more of them," she says. "We're good."

He nods and approaches their latest pile of destruction. The man is still holding his weapon in what's left of his arms. A fully loaded missile launcher. MacCready gives a low whistle. "Okay, that would've hurt."

She comes up beside him. "Wow. I'm starting to think I should have held out for more money."

He hefts the missile launcher; it's heavy and not exactly designed for precision, but he can't deny a little thrill of excitement at holding the thing. "It's still in good shape. Let's sell it."

"If you can actually carry that beast through the next two warehouses, it's all yours."

MacCready grins and sets about strapping it securely to his pack. Beside him, Emma pulls out a stimpak and a bottle of purified water and starts tugging at his sleeve, just below the bullet wound.

"What are you doing?" he asks, wincing when she catches his skin. The bleeding has mostly stopped but it still stings fiercely.

"We've got plenty more work to do tonight," she says. "I don't want you injured."

"It's barely a scratch. Don't waste your stimpaks."

"Hold still," she replies.

"Bossy," he grumbles, but obeys. She peels away a torn layer of his sleeve, hands gentle but businesslike. He feels the pinch of the needle, and then immediate blooming warmth as the pain fades and the skin knits together. She runs her fingertips over the newly mended skin; the touch is whisper light, grazing over the fine hairs on his arm and making them stand on end. He watches her; she's staring intently at the faint red line left by the healed wound, a worried furrow between her eyebrows.

"I'm fine," he says. "Cut myself worse than that shaving."

"You're old enough to shave?"

"Yeah, that's hilarious," he says flatly. "And so original. I've totally never heard that one before."

She meets his eyes. "We need to get you some armor. This jacket doesn't give you any protection."

"Like I said, the point of being a sniper is not getting shot."

"I do a lot of dangerous work, MacCready." She sighs and tugs him over to a battered, threadbare couch. "You're going to get hurt. Hell, you'll probably get hurt again before tonight is over."

He sits at her prompting and accepts the bottle of water. "Goes with the territory," he says. "It's not my first firefight."

"I can tell." She curls up next to him, feet tucked under her legs and her head resting on his shoulder. She throws one arm across his chest and wriggles closer. He tenses, still not sure how to react to the casual, proprietary way she touches him.

"Are we doing this right now?" he asks.

"Just for a few minutes. Drink your water, you lost some blood and you need to rehydrate."

He can feel the tickle of her breath against his neck and the warm weight of her body all along his side. He's not used to it yet, but then again, he's known her less than a day. It feels marginally less weird than it did earlier, at the Rexford, so that's something. "So, uh," he says, "the thing where you can see through walls, are we going to talk about that?"

She huffs out an impatient sigh. "MacCready..."

He holds up a hand. "Hang on, I'm not asking how you do it. You're not gonna tell me, I got it. Message recieved, boss. I just want to know how to use it in a fight. Like, do you have a range limit? What can you see, exactly? Does it matter if there's like, a foot of concrete in the way or is that not a problem?"

She's quiet for a while, fingertips absently tracing the buttons on his shirt. He drinks his water. The couch is thoroughly busted, springs giving way beneath them until they sag into a kind of dip in the middle. He winds up leaning against her as much as she is against him. "Okay," she says eventually. "That's reasonable. That's need-to-know if we're going to keep doing these kinds of jobs together."

"Right? That's all I'm asking for."

She nods, cheek rubbing against his shoulder. "I can see living things, but not objects. So if there was a bomb or a trap or something, I can't see it. Walls look the same to me as they do to you, they're not transparent. But I can pick up life - animals, people, that kind of thing."

He bites back the questions, waiting. He's already figured out she doesn't like questions.

"The range varies," she continues. "If there's interference, I can't see as much. Power lines, radiation, a lot of electronics, those will mess me up. It also depends on what's in the way. Thicker, denser material makes a difference. Thin wooden walls are not the same as heavy metal or cinderblocks. Even with all the right conditions, the best I can do is maybe fifty feet. Past that, it gets fuzzy."

"Fifty feet is closer range than I usually like," he says.

"Yeah, that's one of the reasons I don't do as well with long distance shooting. When we're close, I can get a better feel for when they're about to move, whether they're injured, if they know I'm coming, that kind of thing." She tilts her head to look up at him. "You were right on track earlier, when you took my hand. It helped me see a lot better. If we keep working together, I don't know what I'll be able to do."

"Oh," MacCready says. He's not sure how to respond to that. He's abruptly very aware of how close she is, face turned toward him, eyes wide and solemn. He wouldn't have to lean far at all to close the distance.

He clears his throat, dragging himself off the couch and to his feet. "Time's wasting. We should hit those other warehouses if we want to finish before it gets light."

"Yeah, okay. But before we leave, look around. Take anything valuable."

He grins. "You don't have to tell me twice."

They loot the place top to bottom. She's particular about picking up anything light and small that has good resale value. Ammo and chems, mostly. She pokes through file cabinets, desks, lockers, bags - anything and everything. It's quick, thorough, and practiced. He likes it, except for her habit of also picking up the weirdest random junk. She keeps handing some of it off to him, too. After the fifth dented can he rolls his eyes. "Come on, don't make me carry all this worthless crap."

"Quit your bitching," she says, busy stuffing a chipped crystal decanter in her pack. "Aluminum is useful for weapon mods. I have a purpose for everything I pick up."

"What kind of weapon mods?"

She shrugs. "Most of them. I want to start with a suppressor for your rifle. Maybe a nicer scope, but we need glass and circuitry for that. Keep an eye out for microscopes, they're full of useful stuff. Probably won't find any in here though, they're mostly in labs and hospitals."

"Great," he mutters. "Microscopes are heavy, you know."

"Oh, I know." She gives him a wry smile. "That's why I'm glad you're here."

~~~

The second warehouse goes a lot like the first, minus the attempted ambush with the missle launcher. He's developing a rapid appreciation for her knack of always knowing where the enemies are. She goes through more ammo than he'd like, though; the 10mm is quick and accurate but it doesn't pack much punch. She often takes three or four shots to accomplish what he can in one.

When they finish wiping out the triggermen, she wants another short break. Against the wall this time, him with his back back up against the worn brick and her leaning on his chest, arms around his waist. She grabs his wrists and crosses them at the small of her back. Slowly, he lets hims arms tighten around her and she makes an approving sound.

"You're so _good_ at this," she says, murmuring the words against his collarbone.

He says nothing; he has no answer for unearned praise. He's not _doing_ anything. It doesn't take skill or practice to stand there and let her lean on him. He still doesn't get why she seems to need this so much, but he can't deny that it's working for her. She seems recharged every time, and it makes her quick and lethal in combat.

The sky is just beginning to lighten with the faint gray of pre-dawn as they break into the third warehouse. He's starting to get tired; his pack is full and the missile launcher strapped on top of it isn't helping. Several hours of sustained crouching and creeping around has left his legs aching, and he has a headache from all the gunfire. Even better, he's hungry again. The one big meal the night before was not enough to offset the long, lean months since leaving the Gunners.

She squeezes his shoulder once they're through the door. "Only seven of them in this one," she says. "We'll be done soon. Hang in there."

He doesn't bother asking how she knows he's worn out. Of course she knows. He just nods and follows her lead as they creep up on the door guard.

It goes well until the top floor; there's a cluster of them and they've got bright lights trained on the stairwell. Emma and MacCready are spotted immediately and have to dive for cover. The room is small and the triggermen are moving fast; MacCready's rifle isn't well suited for that kind of fighting and he winds up face to face with a hulking goon wielding a baseball bat.  
  
He hates to use his rifle like a club - it's a precision machine, not a hunk of wood - but he can't line up a shot at such close range. Melee is not his strong suit though, and he's losing. He takes three heavy hits to the ribs and belly and goes down hard, gasping for breath, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. There's a roaring _boom_ right next to him and he feels the peppery spray of gunpowder at close range. Emma has brought out the shotgun. The guy with the baseball bat is flung backward with most of his face gone.

MacCready grabs for a stimpak and injects it in his side, near the sharpest pain from his cracked ribs. The heat is immediate but the pain takes a long time to fade. He can't take a deep breath; every time he tries, he starts coughing. He grits his teeth and forces himself to take slow, shallow sips of air. It's not enough and panic scrabbles around the edges of his mind, telling him he's choking, he's suffocating, he's drowning. He pushes through it on sheer stubbornness and finally, _finally_ the stimpak starts to work and the heavy pressure on his chest lifts.

He hears a sharp cry and looks up in time to see Emma drop, her left leg a mess of blood and torn armor. She's still got her weapon in her hands and she's pointing it at her attacker, but the barrel of the shotgun is wavering badly and she's slumped on the floor, swaying. The man who shot her has a submachine gun, and he's reloading.

MacCready gets his rifle up quick. He only has time for one shot and he knows it. He sights down the scope and breathes out. The shot isn't pretty - in the belly, not the chest or head, but it gets the job done. The man gasps and hunches over, clutching at his middle. It gives Emma enough time to brace her shotgun and fire both barrels, catching him hard in the legs. He hits the ground but he's still breathing, one hand digging in his pocket, probably for a stimpak of his own.

MacCready is back on his feet and he finishes the man with a headshot at close range; it's almost an afterthought. He sinks to the floor beside Emma. She's got a stimpak out but she's fumbling with it, her hands shaking wildly. There's a tremendous amount of blood, soaking her jumpsuit and pooling around the mess of her leg. She's gray-white and shivering, her eyes glazed.

"Here," he says, taking it from her and injecting her in the thigh. He grabs another from his pocket and puts it in just above her knee. She moans and falls back, flopping against the floor, twitching as the medicine struggles to knit her broken flesh and bone.

He gets behind her, propping her head and shoulders up against his chest. "Breathe slow," he says. "Try not to move."

"Not my first gunshot wound," she mumbles, and he shakes his head.

"Yeah, but this one is nasty. Did we get them all?"

"I think so." She twists against him, tugging at his shirt.

"Hey, hold still," he says. "What are you doing?"

"Skin contact works better. It'll help. Let me..." She gets one hand under his shirt and makes a frustrated noise when she finds another shirt underneath.

He gets the picture and starts shedding clothes. He's compact and wiry and he gets cold easily, so he tends to wear a lot of layers. The duster goes first, then a buttoned shirt underneath, followed by a long john top and finally a thin cotton tee. The chilly dawn air nips at his exposed skin but she sighs in relief and curls closer, putting her hands on as much of him as she can reach.

"I'm just a piece of meat to you, aren't I," he says, and she laughs.

"Sorry I don't have a dollar to stuff in your g-string."

He shakes his head, baffled. "What?"

"Never mind. Something people used to do before... well, a long time ago." She's improving fast, color coming back into her face. He can't see how bad the damage was to her leg; it's mostly hidden beneath the remains of her jumpsuit and armor, but he doesn't like the look of all that blood. She's going to be weak for a while, stimpak or not.

"You doing okay?" he asks.

"Getting there." She shuffles closer and tucks her head into the hollow of his throat. She's nearly in his lap and he's naked from the waist up and this is a lot more intimacy than he's prepared to deal with, but he tells himself firmly this is about treating her injury and nothing else.

"I'm starting to think you got shot just to have the excuse to put your hands on me," he says.

"Nah. That's just a perk."

He laughs, but it's thin, forced, and she pulls back. "Yeah, alright," she says. "Too much, too fast. I get it. Sorry, I got greedy. It's been a long time without."

_Without what?_ He watches as she gets carefully to her feet. Her leg supports her weight but she hisses a pained breath through her teeth. "Maybe you should sit down for a while, boss," he says. "Drink some water."

"I'll be okay." She tugs at her torn leg armor, then sighs and unbuckles it, dropping it on the floor. "Damn, I liked that armor."

"After this job, you can afford more," he points out.

She grins. "True. Come on, let's grab whatever we can carry and get out of here."

~~~


	4. Mysteriouser And Mysteriouser

Whatever boost of energy she got from the brief skin contact fades fast; she's limping badly by the time they leave the warehouse. Goodneighbor is dead quiet in the early morning, everyone sleeping it off, the streets cold and empty. They head back to the Rexford, trudging under heavy loads. MacCready slings an arm around her waist and helps her up the stairs without waiting to be asked and she shoots him a grateful look.

The room still belongs to them for most of the day (it seems incredible that he's known her for less than twenty four hours at this point) and they drop everything in a messy heap just inside the door.

She flops on the bed, arms and legs spread out, face down in a pillow. "I'm gonna sleep for a week," she mumbles.

"Right there with you, but let's get a look at that leg first."

"It's fine. Look later. Sleep now."

"At least check and make sure you're not losing any more blood. You really can't afford to."

She turns, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. "Aww, you're worried about me."

He snorts. "I've made more caps today than I have in the last three months. I'm worried about missing out on more."

"Truly, you are a gentleman and a scholar."

"Yeah, I don't know what that means," he says, but he's getting used to her saying things that don't make sense.

"Come on," she says, patting the bed beside her. "Sleeping next to you is going to do me way more good than your medical expertise, such as it is."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted," he says, but he obeys willingly enough. Stretching out and getting off his feet is a relief, even if his ribs still ache. She rolls into him, flinging an arm and a leg across his body and tucking her sharp little chin against his chest. He can feel more than hear her let out a long, low groan.

"God you feel good," she murmurs. "That's never gonna stop being amazing."

"No, that's fine, make yourself comfortable," he says. "Feel free. You're not crowding me or anything. This isn't awkward at all."

"Glad to hear it," she repies tartly. "Go to sleep."

"So _bossy_ ," he mutters, but he's fading fast. She feels light and warm and alive beside him, and it's already better than being alone.

~~~

They sleep most of the day.

The room is full of hazy afternoon light, slanting through the cracks and illuminating the dust in the air when MacCready wakes up. Emma is still sacked out beside him and he takes the opportunity to look at her.

She's young, but older than him, he thinks. There's a peculiar softness to her, despite the way he can see the clear outline of her collarbone and the pointed edge of her jaw. She's underfed, like any wastelander, but her skin is clear and unlined. She doesn't have the damage he'd expect, the weathering of a hard life in the wastes.

Her hands are delicate, fine boned, the nails short but not ragged. No scars on the knuckles, none of the calluses of hard work. Her hair is thick, a mess of curls that tumbles down her back and lays heavy across her shoulders. It's cool to the touch, silky, none of the brittle thinness that comes with a lifetime of radiation exposure.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. Nothing about her makes sense. He's not even entirely sure she's human. Maybe she's a synth, and the super-vision or whatever it is goes with that? Special eye sensors, he doesn't know, who knows what synths can do? But he doesn't think the Institute would make a synth that would get deathly ill if it didn't touch people. That seems like a pretty stupid design flaw.

With nothing to keep him busy, his mind wants to turn to Duncan. To remind him that while he's lazing about in bed, Duncan is sick. Maybe getting worse. Maybe dying. Hell, maybe he already has. Maybe it wasn't even the disease - anything could have happened. His friends' farm is pretty out of the way, pretty quiet, but nowhere is truly safe. There could've been raiders, or super mutants, or maybe just some hungry yao guai.

He scrubs a hand across his face and squeezes his eyes shut tight. It's okay. Duncan is okay, and he's going to get the cure, and it's going to be fine. Fine. He can't ever let himself stop believing it, not for a second.

Beside him, Emma draws in a sharp breath and sits up straight. That just seems to be how she wakes up, all at once, like she's been dunked in ice water. She looks over at him and frowns. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"What?" MacCready shakes his head. "Nothing."

"You're upset. Worried. What is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He rolls to his feet and starts poking at the pile of junk they'd left on the floor. "We should sort through this stuff. Figure out what we're selling and what we're keeping."

She's quiet, but he can feel her gaze on his back. He ignores it and eventually she sighs and gets out of bed. "Yeah, okay," she says. "Food first, though. I'll split the jerky with you; we can get a real meal once we've sold this stuff."

He nods and glances over at her; she's moving easily with no sign of pain. "How's the leg?"

"Oh, right," she says, surprised. She bounces up on her toes, then bends her knees, shifting her weight. "Doesn't hurt at all, actually. Two stimpaks, plenty of sleep and plenty of contact - I'm all set. How about you?"

"I'm good," he says.

"Your ribs still hurt, though," she replies. "Maybe you need another stimpak."

MacCready grits his teeth and turns to face her. "Could you not do that?"

"What?"

"The mind-reading. It's creepy."

She blinks, actually looking _hurt_ for a moment, and then her face goes blank. "I can't read your mind," she evenly. "I can see that you're hungry and a little sore and that something is bothering you, something you're worried about, but that's all. If I could read your mind, I wouldn't have to ask what was wrong, I'd just know."

"Yeah, well..." He waves a hand, not sure how to say it. Not even sure why it bothers him except that he feels uncomfortably exposed. "Don't, okay? If I want you to know something, I'll tell you. You've got plenty of secrets from me."

Her mouth presses into a thin line. "Fine. But I... if I can help, if you need something, please tell me. You've helped me a lot. More than you realize. And if there's something you need help with, then I will."

He wavers for a moment, considering it. She's good in a fight. Quick and deadly at close range, which is perfect for fighting ferals. If she's willing to take him to Med-Tek, then maybe... but no, it's too much. He's not ready to trust her with that much information, with something that important. He reminds himself that he met her yesterday. It's been _one day_. One hell of a day, sure, but he doesn't really know her at all. Just because they sleep next to each other doesn't make them close, doesn't make them friends. It's a job. A weird, crazy, confusing, _ridiculous_ job.

"I'll keep it in mind," he says.

She nods and drops the subject. He's not sure if he's disappointed or relieved.

~~~

They sell the extra weapons and ammo to KL-E-0 and the extra everything else to Daisy and walk away with a sackful of caps. MacCready decides that carrying that heavy missile launcher all night was definitely worth it - Emma let him keep the full sale price on it, just as she'd promised.

He's surprised when she also hands him half the caps that Charlie pays for completing the job. She quirks an eyebrow at him when he hesitates. "You don't want the money?" she asks.

"Oh, I want it," he says quickly. "I just didn't know we were splitting this."

"You did half the work," she replies. "Come on, lunchtime."

It's actually closer to evening by that point but he's not arguing. They share a huge meal and this time she actually eats, humming happily over brahmin steak and roasted tatos. Every time he looks at her across the table, she's beaming, eyes sparkling. It's so strange to see someone looking so happy - a rarity in the wasteland. It draws the attention of everyone in the room, but she seems oblivious to the stares.

"What are you grinning about?" he asks.

"I like being able to taste food again," she says simply. "I like not feeling sick, and not being exhausted and miserable."

"Well... yeah," he says. "Can't argue with you there."

"I'm not sure you understand," she says. "The last few months were the worst of it, sure, but I've _never_ been okay. Never been a hundred percent. This is the first time I've felt _good_. I don't think I even knew what good felt like before now. I keep telling you how much it does for me when... how much _you_ do for me but I don't think you get it."

He nods and pushes his food around on the plate. He has no idea how to answer that. She's so closed off sometimes, so unwilling to answer questions, and then other times she's like this, sharing more of herself than he knows what to do with. She runs hot and cold, sharp and soft, and he's always guessing, off-balance, confused.

"Hey, do you know that guy?" she asks.

"Hmm?" He looks up and she jerks her chin toward a man sitting across the room. MacCready glances over. "The one in the sunglasses?"

"Yeah. Have you seen him before?"

He hesitates. "Maybe? He just looks like a drifter. I've been in town a while, I've probably seen him around."

"He's not a drifter," she says. "I don't know who he is, but he's watching us."

MacCready takes another look - the man is perfectly ordinary. A tattered plaid shirt and dusty workboots, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer and looking just like every other lowlife that wanders through Goodneighbor. "I'm not sure you noticed, but a lot of people in here are watching you," he says. "You don't exactly blend."

She blinks at him and then looks around. At least three people hastily avert their eyes like they weren't staring. The fourth doesn't bother - he just keeps right on eyeing her up and down. She meets his gaze coolly and then deliberately turns her back to him. "Okay, granted," she says. "But he's different. I've seen him before. I think he's following me."

"Yeah?" MacCready sits a little straighter, shifting his shoulders just to feel the familiar weight of his rifle across his back. "Is he going to be a problem?"

"I'm not sure." She casts a sidelong glance toward the man, then reaches her hand across the table. MacCready takes it automatically. After a longer look, she shakes her head. "No. He's trouble, but I don't think he's _our_ trouble."

"Still. If he's following you, there's got to be a reason and it's probably not anything good."

"Maybe," she says. "He's hard to see."

MacCready frowns, not sure what that means. The guy is maybe thirty feet away in plain view. She doesn't seem interested in explaining it further though, so he shrugs and adds it to the ever growing list of Things About The Boss That Don't Make Any Sense.

"So, what's next, boss?"

"You ready to leave town?" she asks. "I want to head out tonight. I prefer traveling at night anyway, and our sleep schedule is already screwed, so let's go with it."

He nods. "Fine by me. Goodneighbor is starting to wear out its welcome anyway. It'll be good to get on the road again."

~~~


	5. New Layers

They stock up on food and supplies before leaving town, but even with that, their packs are light. She doesn't seem inclined to keep it that way.

When MacCready thinks of traveling, it's usually from one point to another, along a mostly straight line. The whole idea is to get to where he's going without dying on the way. His mental map of the Commonwealth is full of super mutant nests, raider camps, relatively safe places to sleep, and places to avoid.

Emma's approach seems to be totally different. She meanders. She pokes and digs and takes the time to read terminals and look through old junk. She wants to explore every crumbling ruin and invariably finds something that she wants to take with them. MacCready already has a nice new suppressor on his rifle, and although he actually saw her make it out of old soda cans and the remains of a battered desk fan, he's still not especially fond of her junk-gathering habit.

He also realizes that she likes traveling at night because she's almost always using stealth. She moves slow and careful, sidling along walls and watching in all directions. She keeps close to cover and minds her sightlines with the kind of instinct that he's seen on well-experienced gunners. It doesn't fit with her softness, the way so many things seem new to her. She's like a trained combat veteran that has also been living under a rock for most of her life.

All this means they make slow progress and they've covered very little ground by the time the sun is coming up. They're headed vaguely west, along the river, but he's not sure what she's aiming for.

"In here," she says, slipping between two buildings.

"I think I know this place," he says. "Hangman's Alley, isn't it? Careful boss, there's usually raiders here."

"Not anymore." There's a fortified guard post at the mouth of the alley, and a man stands there holding, of all things, a laser musket. "Hey!" she calls, waving at him.

He waves back. "General? That you?"

"Yeah," she says. "Williams, right?"

The man grins and puffs up a little, pleased to be recognized. "Yes ma'am. Come on in, you're just in time for breakfast."

MacCready casts her a speculative look as they pass beneath two humming turrets. "General?" he asks softly.

"Long story," she says. "Tell you later."

There's a makeshift wall, cobbled together with old hunks of plywood and concrete, and then they're into a densely packed alley. Little shacks are wedged into every corner, with a network of stairs and bridges connecting the upper levels. Several of the surrounding buildings have big gaps in the walls and the settlers have built right into them. MacCready even spots some garden plots at the upper levels, corn and tatos and mutfruit sprouting in the dirt and rubble of ruined apartments.

There's got to be fifteen or twenty people milling around, some working on the garden, some hammering on the upper level of a new shack, some pulling guard duty on the walls. He can smell the smoky tang of meat over an open fire and he's pleased to see that Williams is leading them right to it.

A woman is turning a well-laden spit over the fire; the hunks of meat are small and boneless, which means it's probably insects of some kind, but whatever. It smells good and it's hardly the first time he's had radroach or bloodbug. This deep in the ruins of the city, there aren't a lot of radstags wandering around.

"Hey, Libby," Williams says. "This is the one I told you about. General of the Minutemen."

Libby is apparently the cook. She nods, but eyes them both with the familiar deep suspicion of any wastelander. "S'pose you'll be wantin' some food, then."

"Actually, I'm here to build a water pump," Emma says.

Libby raises her eyebrows. "Yeah? Sure could use one. Nothin' but concrete and dirt round here. We been drinkin' rainwater when we can get it, but it's makin' us sick."

"Yeah, one of my guys let me know about it over the radio, and I was headed this way, so I thought I'd help out," Emma says. "I salvaged the parts we'll need on the way over. I'm thinking something high capacity, run off a generator. The little hand-cranked pumps won't work well here, not enough open land. We can rig up the purifier to the gutter irrigation system and get a nice little clean water source."

Libby is nodding, the closed-off wariness gone from her face. "Yeah, that's perfect," she says. "I been tellin' Mike that we're losing too much water down that storm drain every time it rains. If we could clean it up and store it we'd have plenty."

"Who's Mike?" Emma asks.

"Oh, he's kinda the boss," Libby says. "Sets the guard schedules, makes sure everyone does a fair share of the weedin' in the garden, stuff like that. He does a share too so nobody complains much."

"Glad to hear it." Emma lifts her chin toward the food on the spit. "Okay with you if my friend and I grab some breakfast? Then we'll go talk to Mike about the best place to set up that water pump."

Libby shares the meat willingly and they grab a couple ripe mutfruit from a basket and settle on a concrete retaining wall to eat. MacCready knows he's staring at her, but he can't help it. He is never, ever going to figure her out. Whenver he gets even slightly close, she surprises him in some completely new and crazy way. Today she's the General of the Minutemen and a civil engineer; tomorrow it'll be something else.

She smirks at him, lips stained red-purple with mutfruit juice. "This one is okay to ask about," she says.

"Oh thank god," he mutters. "What is going on? Did we really trawl through three different raider infested office buildings picking up stupid junk so you could build a water pump for a bunch of settlers? Why did that guy call you general? Is he serious about you being the General of the Minutemen? Are they even still a thing?"

She starts to giggle, covering her mouth with her hand, eyes dancing merrily and he wants to be irritated but he can't really hold onto it. "They are still a thing," she says. "Barely. Yes, he's serious about me being the general. Yes, we did go through those buildings for junk so I could build a water pump."

MacCready opens and closes his mouth a few times, then takes a deep breath and lets it out in a rush. "Should I ask why or am I just going to regret it?"

"I've got plenty of good reasons," she says. "Right now, we're eating free, freshly cooked breakfast. We're in a well fortified and defended location with plenty of protection. We'll be able to sleep here a lot safer than we would out there. These people are going to remember that we helped them, and later, if we need help, we'll have friends. Plus, you see that little row of shops over there? I set those up, and they work for me. I get a cut of the profits. That's why I had the caps I needed to hire you, MacCready. I don't do anything without a reason."

Her voice is calm and level, but he can't help feeling a bit chastised. He picks at the remains of his breakfast. "Oh," he says.

She leans against his side, shoulders pressing together. "You've been on your own for a long time, haven't you?"

He shrugs. "I guess so, why?"

"It just takes time to learn to think differently," she says. "When you've got nobody you can depend on, you learn to rely on yourself and always be looking out for what benefits you. What you can use, what will make you stronger or faster or richer. And that's normal. That's what you do to survive. It's not wrong."

He says nothing. The sun is over the horizon now, bright shafts of light and shadow filtering through the ruined buildings, sharp in his eyes. He squints against it and thinks of what it was like to rely on his friends at Little Lamplight. Being part of a community, knowing they had his back and he had theirs. And then later, how it was with Lucy. He could always lean on her. But she's gone, and he's had to take care of Duncan alone, to keep them both alive, and it's _hard_. It's hard to carry so much responsibility, so much worry and care and love for such an impossibly small and fragile life. He can feel it like a weight on his shoulders, a vise around his chest, pressure in his throat making it hard to swallow, hard to breathe.

Emma laces their fingers together and rests her cheek on his shoulder. "I know," she says. "I was on my own for a long time too."

He knows it's just a job. He knows, he can't forget that. She made it clear what this is, and what it isn't. But he squeezes her hand and lets himself pretend, for a moment, that it's more.

~~~

Mike turns out to be in one of the upper level-shacks, sitting at a desk made of boards and cinderblocks. He's got sheets of paper spread out everywhere, held down with rocks. They're covered with small, neat handwriting and they look like duty rosters to MacCready. He wrinkles his nose; he got more than his fill of schedules and orders working for the Gunners.

"Hi," Emma says. "Mike, right? Libby said I should talk to you about the water pump."

Mike stands and smiles at her. "General, I'm glad you're here. I've heard so much about you." He sticks out his hand to shake. MacCready watches, a little bemused, as Emma shakes it. It's a custom that's rarely used in the Commonwealth these days, but Mike looks like just the type of broad-shoudered, square-jawed comic book hero wannabe that would dig it up. He's tall and well built and he's got a dimple in one cheek when he smiles and MacCready hates him pretty much instantly.

"I've heard good things about you too," Emma repies. "We need more community leaders. I can't be in every settlement and it's important to have a clear and fair distribution of work to keep us unified."

Mike's smile broadens. He's even got good teeth. Not perfect, not like hers, but decent, for a wastelander. "Gosh, thanks," he says.

_Gosh, thanks_ , MacCready thinks, rolling his eyes. He'll probably say _Aw, shucks_ next.

"This is my friend MacCready," Emma adds, pointing at him.

"Hi, welcome," Mike says. He gives MacCready a quick nod and turns back to Emma. "So, I heard you were thinking of using a generator?"

The conversation gets boring fast from there. MacCready wanders to the other side of the room and looks out a vaguely window-shaped gap in the wall. He's got to admit the little settlement seems to be doing well. Everyone looks busy, but happy. He can hear conversations drifting up; there are even a few kids playing, chasing each other under the bridges and laughing. The walls are solid and the turrets are strategically placed. The guards move in regular, consistent patterns and most of them are armed with practical pipe rifles, not those silly laser muskets.

He yawns, twisting a little to work out the tension in his shoulders. They've been walking and scavenging all night. The raiders they cleared were no challenge and they didn't take any hits, but he's still tired. He needs to keep moving or he's going to start nodding off.

"Hey, I'm gonna check out some things," he says.

They look up; they're both leaning over the desk, peering at some schematics. Mike dismisses him with a shrug, but Emma looks at him a little longer, thoughtful. He shifts uncomfortably; she always sees more than he wants her to. "Okay," she says. "Don't go too far."

"Sure, boss." He turns and heads down the stairs. They've already resumed their conversation behind him and he walks a little faster.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and climbs up to the perimeter, taking the same path he saw the guards using. He checks for weak spots, for potential sniper's nests in the buildings around them. A predictable guard route might be stable and easy to manage, but it's also asking for trouble if an enemy takes the time to learn it.

He finds a few vulnerable spots, but only if someone were dedicated and patient enough to learn the gaps, and then skilled enough to hit them. The settlement doesn't have much worth stealing; most raiders are going to look for an easier target.

MacCready finishes his check and comes back to ground level, weaving between bridge supports and twisting pathways. It's crowded and close, but he finds that kind of comforting. Growing up in a cave left him with a certain mistrust of wide open spaces. He swings past the shops to see if they have anything useful, and to sell some of the spare chems and weapons he picked up on the trip.

They don't have much selection or much money, but he manages a few trades that leave him with a lighter pack and a fuller bag of caps. He even splurges on a box of Fancy Lads snack cakes; he's always had a weakness for them.

Then he trudges back up the stairs to Mike's shack. They're facing away from him when he pauses in the doorway, looking at a detailed sketch of the settlement pinned up on the wall. Mike is pointing at it with one hand, talking about the layout of the drainage system. His other hand is on the small of Emma's back.

MacCready narrows his eyes and clears his throat. They turn, and Emma flashes him a smile that looks almost relieved. "There you are," she says. She moves to his side and links her arm through his, pulling him close. "Mike, we've been traveling all night. Is there somewhere we can sleep while your guys clear the space we talked about? I can't start building until the prep work is done anyway."

Mike has an odd, pinched sort of look on his face. "We do have a couple of spare bunks..."

"Oh, we'll only need one," MacCready says breezily. Emma digs her elbow into his side.

"Ah," Mike says. "I see."

_Yeah, I bet you do_. MacCready gives him a wide, toothy grin.

"Is it that house by the east entrance?" Emma asks. "I thought I saw some extra beds in there."

Mike nods. "I'll see you later, then?" he asks, and he's clearly only speaking to Emma.

"We wouldn't miss it," MacCready replies. "Looking forward to it, buddy. I sure do love building water pumps."

Emma covers her mouth with one hand and tugs him out the door. They make it halfway across the settlement before she starts to giggle, little spurts of laughter leaking out around her fingers still pressed against her mouth.

"What?" MacCready asks. "Something funny? Gosh, that Mike sure was a nice guy, wasn't he? Golly gee ma'am, you betcha."

"Stop it," Emma says, but she's still laughing, stumbling against him. He wraps an arm around her waist to keep her from toppling over. They're both a little punch-drunk with tiredness and MacCready isn't sure he can remember the last time he actually had _fun_.

They make it to the bunkhouse and MacCready steers them toward the bed farthest from the door, against the wall. He tucks their packs between them and the wall and puts their weapons down next to them. Emma is sitting on the edge of the bed, still grinning, looking up at him with soft, sleepy eyes.

"You okay?" he asks on impulse.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm good."

"I shouldn't have left you with him."

She waves a dismissive hand. "He's a good leader and he cares about the community. And he also cares about drainage systems. Like, a _lot_. I seriously learned way more than I ever wanted to know about gravity-based rainwater irrigation on rooftop gardens. But he knows his stuff and he's eager to help."

"Yeah, he's eager for something alright," MacCready replies.

Emma rolls her eyes. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I probably noticed that before you did. It's nothing I couldn't handle."

He stretches out on his side and she tucks herself against his chest. It's a tight squeeze with their packs and weapons at his back, but he finds he doesn't mind. She pulls his arm around her waist and sighs, humming low in her throat.

"Did you... did you want to stay?" MacCready asks. "I mean, did I just cockblock you in there or what?"

She snorts and shakes her head. "Oh my god no. I'm glad you showed up when you did. I was gonna have to let him down easy otherwise and that's always awkward."

"Not into the boy scout type, huh?"

She's quiet, and he wonders if this is another one of those questions he's not supposed to ask. He closes his eyes and settles more comfortably against her, prepared to drop the subject and go to sleep. He's already starting to doze off when she says, "That's just not something I do."

He frowns, trying to figure out what that means. "What, is that a rule for Minutemen generals? No hooking up with the settlers?"

"No, I don't... I don't. Do that."

There's silence for a moment while he gets his head around this one. "Like, ever? You just don't... ever?"

"Right."

"We are talking about sex, aren't we?"

She huffs out an impatient breath and digs her heels into the mattress, shifting uneasily. "Never mind. Go to sleep."

"No, but wait, so you've never... really?"

"Shut _up_ , MacCready," she mutters. "It's complicated. I don't want to talk about it."

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again with a click. She's tense in his arms, leaning toward the edge of the bed. "Okay," he says. "You're right, that's none of my business. Come on, it's okay." He tugs a little, pulling her in until her back presses against his chest again. He tightens his arms around her waist - she always seems to like that. There's a moment when he thinks it isn't going to work this time, and then she sighs and relaxes.

"It's really unfair that you're so good at this," she says, so quiet he's not sure he was meant to hear it.

He doesn't respond - he's not sure what it is exactly that he's so good at, but he suspects it probably doesn't involve talking.

~~~


	6. Coming Clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the story finally earns its rating.

They spend over a week at Hangman's Alley, working on their water system. It would've been faster, except on the second day as they're drilling the ground stake for the generator, they break through into the old Fens Street sewer system. It's flooded nearly to ground level and they decide to extend a pipe down into it and use the pump to suck it up.

Of course, that means they have way more irradiated water than they know what to do with, and need a second purifier to handle it all, plus a way to store the water. MacCready thinks they'll have to do another scrap run, but it turns out Emma has some kind of supply line system in place between multiple settlements and the materials they need arrive by caravan.

During the day, they work on the pump system and the water tank. In the evenings, he takes her to the surrounding rooftops for sniper lessons. She takes to it with a kind of driven intensity, like she absolutely must learn to be the best sniper possible. She's a quick study, but easily frustrated. She hates missing.

"Breathe," MacCready says, biting back a smile. She gets pink in the face when she's irritated, and her thunderous scowl is actually kind of cute.

"I am breathing," she says. "I'm doing everything you said! Lining up, using my environment to my advantage, squeezing slowly - I'm even remembering to check the wind and the distance. Why am I missing?"

"Because you've been learning this for three whole days," he replies. "I've been using a rifle since I was ten. It just takes time, boss."

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that how it's done these days? Kids with guns?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, pretty much. You learn young or you don't get old."

"Hmm." She turns, looking across the crumbling rooftops at the setting sun. Below them, the molerats they've been taking potshots at begin to settle, thinking the danger has passed. One of them lumbers along the pavement, sniffing, and she watches it. She brings the rifle to her shoulder.

"Hold on," MacCready says. "Part of the problem is that my rifle is too big for you."

She gives him a dubious look. "What does that mean?"

"You can't hold it steady enough because your arms don't reach the right part of the forestock comfortably." He takes the rifle and holds it, the stock fitting neatly into the crook of his shoulder and his hands finding the worn places with the ease of long familiarity. "See where I put my hands? Your arms are shorter and you can't brace it the same way. What you really need is a rifle customized to your grip. But for now, try finding something you can rest it on. Something solid you can use so it doesn't wobble so much."

"I don't wobble," she grumbles, but she takes his suggestion. The remains of a couple patio chairs are slumped in a corner and she drags one over, pushing on it to test the solidity. Then she props it up on the edge of the roof closest to the molerats. It takes a little trial and error as she tries to get it positioned to support the rifle without blocking her view, but eventually she's crouched behind it and ready to line up the shot.

MacCready kneels behind her and puts his hands on her arms, fixing her grip. She's tense, holding the rifle so tightly he can see her knuckles going white. "Easy," he says. "You've got to relax." He runs his palms over her arms a few times and then up to her shoulders in a slow stroke.

She leans into him and makes a pleased hum. "Better," she says. "I should've asked you to do this from the start."

"I think that would be cheating," he replies. "Just keep practicing and you'll get it. You don't have to be an expert overnight."

She shakes her head. "I'm not trying to be perfect right away. I just don't have a lot of time."

"You don't? I didn't think we were in a rush, what with the public works projects and all."

"That's different," she says. "I'm building something."

"Yeah, a water pump. I know. Believe me, I've now learned more about it than I ever wanted to."

"No, that's... that's just a tool. A way to create support for the Minutemen and build what I really want."

MacCready rests his chin on her shoulder and speaks close to her ear. "And what do you really want?"

She shivers; he can hear her breathing catch for a moment. "I want an army."

"Oh," he says, a little numbly. "Well... everyone's got dreams, huh?"

She snorts. "Not exactly what I'd call it. But this is what I've got, and I'm going to work with it. I'll need all the support I can get."

"You going to war?"

"Only if I have to," she says. "Something was taken from me. Something precious. And if I have to go to war to get it back, I will."

MacCready hesitates; this feels like the kind of conversation that is quickly going to fall into Things Emma Won't Talk About territory. He decides to change tactics. "Come on," he says, "we're losing the light. Enough target practice for one day."

"One more," she says. "Stay close. I don't care if it's cheating."

"You're the boss."

She smiles - he can see the curve of her cheek. He leans in again and murmurs low in her ear. "Remember to lead the target. At this range, the bullet doesn't get there instantly. The faster the target is moving, the more you have to lead."

"It's a molerat, not a cheetah," she says.

"What's a cheetah?"

"Never mind. Keep going, this is helping."

He loops his fingers gently around her wrists, his thumbs idly rubbing the soft skin on the insides until her hands grow steady and her grip eases up. "Good," he says. "You want to be holding the rifle firmly, but not tight. Tension makes you shake. Be a rock. There's a kind of calm that happens when the shot lines up just right. It's like you can feel the notch in the air where the bullet is supposed to go, and you just rest right there and let it happen."

Her breathing slows and evens out and he finds himself matching his own breaths to hers. Inhale, exhale, her back against his chest, his breath stirring her mess of tousled hair and whispering against her neck. "That's right," he says. "Quiet. Block out anything that's distracting you. The world should feel distant. The only thing in focus is what you have in the crosshairs. That's all that matters."

She pivots, rifle resting against the chair, moving smooth and slow to track her target. He's not the one shooting, but he can feel it too. The sense of being wrapped in a thick fog, everything around him becoming faded and muffled. It was exactly that feeling of peace that drew him to long-distance shooting in the first place, and he still loves it.

She squeezes the trigger easily, almost lazily. He's sure the shot is good but he looks anyway, both of them peering down into the street. They're working at 300 yards and night is falling fast, but there's still enough light to see the telltale spatter of blood and the panicked scurrying of the remaining molerats.

"Ha!" she says, raising both hands in the air. "I did it!"

He grins. "Nice shot."

She beams at him, lit up and shining the way she does when she's happy. "You are an _awesome_ teacher. Way better than the guys who taught me close range combat."

"Yeah?" he asks. "You've... had other training, then?"

But she's already turning away, gathering up their things. "Never mind, that's not important. Come on, let's get back."

MacCready follows her, mentally adding this piece to the puzzle. He still can't see the shape of it, can't even figure out the edges of her whole confusing mess, but he wants to. Every new mystery just makes him more curious, and every little snip of information he manages to pry out of her just makes him more fascinated with what might lie beneath.

~~~

The settlement celebrates the completion of their new water system with baths for everyone. Someone had the clever idea to route the pipes around the generator, cooling the engine and warming the water. It's not hot, exactly, and they're still careful about wasting purified water, so it's really just a large bowl of clean, warm water for each person. They repurpose a few small private shacks to use as bath houses.

MacCready doesn't care much one way or the other; he likes being clean, sure, but it doesn't bother him to be dirty either. Hygiene has just never been much of a priority in his life. It feels like the kind of luxury that rich, spoiled city-dwellers might get to indulge in. Not for the likes of him.

The settlers insist that Emma gets to go first, since she made the pump system possible. She doesn't wait to be asked twice, taking her bowl of water and a bar of soap and disappearing into the shack. MacCready stands by the entrance - he's not _exactly_ standing guard, but he is surreptitiously keeping an eye out for Mike. Wouldn't put it past him to try to catch a glimpse of Emma washing.

He's been on his best behavior all week and it's painfully obvious that he still hopes to somehow win her over. MacCready has caught him casting wistful glances at her, and then disbelieving glances at MacCready himself, as if Mike cannot understand how Emma made such a foolish choice. He makes sure to grin his widest, toothiest grin every time he catches Mike eyeing him.

"Hey, MacCready," Emma calls from the other side of the door.

"Yeah boss?"

"I was in too much of a hurry to get in here and forgot to bring clean clothes. Would you grab me something from my pack?"

"You sure you don't want to just walk out and grab it yourself?" he asks. "I bet you'd make Mike's day. Probably his whole week."

"Don't be an ass," she says, but he can hear the smile in her voice. "Go on, I'm almost done."

"Yeah, I'm going." He heads for the bunkhouse where they've been sleeping. After the first few days, they felt safe enough to leave their things there rather than carrying them all the time. The settlers don't touch their stuff, and MacCready has refrained from casually pocketing anything belonging to the settlement. It's not trust exactly, but it is a kind of mutual unspoken agreement.

Emma's bag is a disorganized mess, as always, and he has to pull out a wad of clothing and try to figure out what she needs. He grabs jeans and a shirt, then hesitates and pokes at something white and lacy. He can feel heat rise in his face and he glances over his shoulder as if someone might show up and demand to know what he's doing with Emma's panties. Which is dumb - the whole settlement assumes they're a couple anyway. Sleeping together every night will do that.

"Idiot," he mutters at himself. He grabs the panties and rolls them up with the shirt, then tucks the whole mess under his arm and heads back out.

Mike is, of course, lingering like an eager puppy by the bathhouse door. "Hey Mike!" MacCready calls out in his brightest, cheeriest voice. "How ya doing, buddy?"

"Oh, yes. Hello." He shuffles his feet a little, glancing around. "I, ah, I was just checking to see if Emma - uh, that is, the General - needed anything."

"Aren't you sweet," MacCready says. "So helpful. We sure do appreciate it. But don't worry, I took care of it." He holds up the clothes and yeah, maybe he makes sure a bit of lace shows. He never claimed to be mature.

Mike's face does some complicated and fairly pink contortions and then settles into resignation. "Right. I'll leave you to it, then." He turns and walks away, doing what appears to be his best impression of a casual stroll.

MacCready knocks on the door. "Hey honey," he says, plenty loud enough for Mike to hear. "Want me to hand you this stuff or should I just join you?"

There's a clattering sound and a splash, and then a couple muffled curses. MacCready covers his mouth with one hand. Behind him, the door opens a crack. It's dark inside, and in the bright afternoon sun all he can see is a faint shimmer of wet skin and her hair hanging thick and sodden around her face. "That wasn't very nice," she says. She completely fails to sound disapproving.

"Well, if you don't want these clothes..."

"You are such a pain in the ass," she mutters, but she's laughing at the same time. Her arm reaches out and he hands her the bundle of clothes. The door slams pointedly shut.

When she comes out, she's still damp but she's done something to her hair to make it stay in a knot on top of her head, instead of dripping all over her shirt. With all the dirt scrubbed from her skin, she fairly glows in the sun. She's got her sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons of her shirt undone; he can see the line of her collarbone and the smooth, soft arch of her throat. His fingers twitch and he stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"I don't know what you have against him," she says.

MacCready blinks at her. "What?"

She rolls her eyes. "Don't play innocent. You've had it in for Mike since the moment we met him."

"He's just so..." MacCready shrugs. He's not sure he can put it into words. It's something about the neatly printed duty rosters and the big, show-offy diagrams of his fancy irrigation system and his stupid charming smile. It makes MacCready want to rile him up and take him down a peg or two.

"Men," she mutters, shaking her head. "Well, you'll be pleased to know we're leaving town tonight."

He perks up - he's been getting restless. "Yeah? Where we headed?"

"Little settlement northwest of here, called Graygarden. Then further north. I'll want to travel at night, so we should catch a nap this afternoon before we leave."

He nods and turns toward the bunkhouse, but she holds him back with a tug on his sleeve. "What?" he asks.

"There's no way I'm laying down with you until you get a bath too," she says. "Get your things. I'm going to get the rest of our clothes thrown in with their washing, and maybe do a little trading. I'll meet you after."

He grumbles, but it's mostly for show. Seeing her clean has made him aware of how grimy his skin is. He snags some clothes and some soap, and persuades a settler to let him cut in line (being the General's friend has a few perks) and soon he's ensconced in a dim, damp shack. He shucks his clothes quickly, piling them on a bench.

The air is cool on his skin and he feels weirdly vulnerable, exposed. It's strange to be naked. He's usually wearing several layers, plus armor. He doesn't even have the familiar weight of his rifle on his back or his cap on his head.

He wonders if she felt this way too, standing here. If she had the urge to cover up, or if she took her time and enjoyed the warm water. He runs a hand over his chest, thinking of how she might have started. Maybe pouring some water over her head, letting it wet her hair and slip down her body, making her skin slick. Maybe she closed her eyes, sighing in pleasure at the feeling, rubbing her hands down her sides, toward her waist... maybe even between her legs.

He catches his breath and pulls his hand away before it can curl around his dick. He's already hard and he can't even pretend to be surprised. Arousal pools low in his belly, tugging at him, heat rising up his chest and making his skin tingle. He looks down ruefully.

"This is such a bad idea," he mutters, but what the hell. Wouldn't be his first bad idea, probably won't be his last.

He dips his hands in the warm water and strokes them over his chest, feeling the droplets slide down, tickling. His breathing is already speeding up. He closes his eyes and thinks of her washing herself, hands gliding slowly over her skin. If she was in here with him, would she let him wash her? Let him put his hands on her? She likes contact, likes closeness. Maybe she'd let him hold her like this, no clothes between them, nothing but a thin layer of soapy water to make them slippery.

He bites back a moan, legs going wobbly. He trails his nails over his belly, then teases with just his fingertips along the line of his hip, the smooth curve of bone where the skin is taut and thin. His dick is heavy between his legs, hard enough to throb with a low ache. If she were here, if she were pressed against him, he'd be able to feel her heat, the impossible softness of her skin. He could tilt his hips and rub right up against her.

"Oh god," he mumbles, biting his lip. "Please, I have to, oh..."

But she'd tease him, he thinks. She'd make him wait. He brings his hands back up and ghosts a faint touch over his throat, just enough to ruffle the fine hairs there and raise goosebumps all down his back. His nipples pebble up in the cool, damp air and he touches them, little circles around them, then a gentle brush over the tips. He imagines its her mouth, curious, tasting, tongue flicking lightly over him. He whimpers - imagines her looking up at him when she hears the sound. She'd be smiling, that teasing, playful grin that makes her eyes dance.

_Something wrong?_ she'd ask, all innocence. _You want something?_

"Harder, do it again," he says, and he pinches a little. A bite, then soothing kisses, little licks until he can't stand it anymore and begs her to touch him. "I can't, oh please, it's, I need this, I _need_ it, Emma you gotta let me..."

Finally, _finally_ he wraps his hand around his dick and squeezes, groaning in relief. His hips stutter forward and he has to brace his other hand against the wall to keep from falling. His head hangs down and he imagines kissing along the line of her neck, murmuring low in her ear. He thinks of the way she shivers when he's coaching her to make the perfect shot with the rifle. The way she leans into him and her breath catches when he whispers in her ear. She's probably sensitive - he thinks she'd squirm and gasp if he nibbled her neck. She'd press closer, holding tight to him, she'd say _yes, please, I want it, yes..._

"Want you too," he says, lost in his head, in the firm stroke and twist of his hand, the rub of his thumb and the tight coil of pleasure growing there. He imagines holding on to that soft, silky hair of hers, gently brushing it back from her face, using it to hold her while he kisses her. Her mouth is sweet, opening for him, eager. He can hear the little gasp she makes when he darts the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip.

She'll tell him what to do, he thinks. She loves to give him orders and he's starting to love taking them. P _ut your hands on me,_ she'll say. _And your mouth, I want your mouth. Please, oh god, it's good. You're so good Bobby, just like that, more..._

"Yeah," he breathes, voice thick and shaking. "All you want, I'll do it, I'll do anything you say, I'm... yes, yes, _fuck_ , I'm gonna..."

He turns his head and bites the side of his hand, muffling his shout as he comes. It seems to go on forever, until his head is spinning and his dick is twitching and oversensitive in his hand and he has to sit down before his knees buckle. He winds up on the floor, gasping for breath, limbs trembling.

After a minute, he opens his eyes. He is, of course, still alone in the shack. He scrubs a hand over his face. "Well, shit," he mutters. "I am in _so_ much trouble."

~~~


	7. The Talk

It occurs to him once he's washed and dressed that Emma knows things. She knows when he's tired, or hungry, or injured. There's a good chance she will take one look at him and know exactly what he's been up to.

Come to think of it, she also has that knack for seeing through walls, at least in some ways. And the settlement isn't that big. Easily within her range, if she happened to be looking his direction while he was...

He pushes the thought away fast. There are a lot of people here. A lot of life signs, or whatever it is she sees. Plus, the generator and the purifiers, all those things count as interference. She probably didn't actually _watch_ him.

A low curl of heat shoots through him at that thought and he finds himself wanting to give his dick a stern lecture on when it is okay to be turned on and when it is _not_.

His feet carry him automatically toward the bunkhouse and sure enough, there she is, busily packing up her bag. She glances over her shoulder at him. Her hands go still and she slowly raises one eyebrow. He can feel himself blushing, heat from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Well," she says. "You look... refreshed. Enjoy your bath?"

He thinks there are two ways this can go. He can be embarrassed as hell and stumble over his words and generally make a fool of himself, or he can try to brazen his way through it. Maybe she knows what he did - okay, _probably_ she knows - but she doesn't know what he thought about. He hopes.

"Yep," he says brightly. "Sure did. You?"

She smirks. "Not quite as much as you, I think."

"Then you missed out," he says. "Maybe next time, huh?"

Her mouth opens, then closes again, and she actually goes a little pink. She clears her throat and turns back to her packing. "I'm almost done here, then we'll get some sleep."

"Sure, boss," he says. "I could use a nap."

She snorts. "Yeah, I bet."

He ducks his head, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, but she seems inclined to drop the subject. She tugs him onto the bed and arranges his limbs to her liking, the same as usual. She likes to be the little spoon and he has grown to enjoy the feeling of the wall at his back and the warm weight of her all along his front. It makes him feel surrounded, protected on all sides.

She settles in with one of her pleased little sighs, wrapping his arm around her waist and pressing back against him. The other advantage of this position is that she's not looking at him, so he doesn't have to school his expression or worry about what she might be picking up.

He tells himself this is going to be okay. So he jerked off while thinking of his boss - whatever. It's not the end of the world. It was really kind of inevitable. She's a beautiful woman and she keeps _touching_ him all the time. Of course he's going to get a few wires crossed. He's only human - how long could he really expect to have no reaction to her? He just needs to keep reminding himself that this is a job. It's a service she is paying for and he is providing as ordered.

Besides, it's normal for him to fantasize when he's... entertaining himself. MacCready doesn't like to be alone, never has, and that extends to his sex life too. He often can't even get off unless he's picturing someone with him. So of course she was the first to come to mind, that's only natural.

And yeah, maybe the fantasy got a little... intimate. Maybe there was a little more kissing and touching and playful teasing than he usually indulges in. Maybe he put a little too much detail into the way she looked at him and the things she said. Calling him _Bobby_ was probably taking it too far. Only his closest friends have ever used that name - nobody has called him that since Lucy. That might have been crossing a line, but it's okay. He can reel it back in. He's got it out of his system now. It'll be fine.

~~~

They head out at dusk, well supplied with food, water, and ammo. It seems like everyone in the settlement makes a point of thanking them - both of them - and MacCready isn't sure what to do with all the recognition. He's not really used to being the good guy and it feels strange. He smiles and nods and keeps walking.

Emma leads them west, skirting the edge of the Chestnut Hillock Reservoir with enough space to avoid the bloodbugs that like to nest there. They turn north once they hit the railroad tracks. It's more peaceful on the outer edge of the city; less cover, but fewer enemies as well. The stars are coming out and the night is cool and dry.

"Nice to be on the open road," MacCready says. "I was in Goodneighbor for too long. Forgot what fresh air is like."

"I've only been there a couple times," Emma replies. "Does seem like kind of a rough town."

He snorts. "Yeah, that's an understatement. Be glad you were only visiting. It's full of thieves, chem-heads and low-lifes. Nothing says home like the stink of urine-soaked garbage."

She casts him a sidelong glance. "Was it home, to you? Didn't seem like it."

"Not really." He looks out at the horizon and settles his rifle more comfortably in his hands, one thumb idly rubbing the smooth place on the stock in an old, unconsious habit. "Bad place to live. Good place to disappear, though."

"And you wanted to disappear?"

He nods. "Yeah. Worked for a while, but it couldn't last forever. And hiding out doesn't really suit me, anyway. Can't get much rest when you're sleeping with one eye open. Still, it was the best place for me to set up shop. Wandering the Commonwealth alone is a good way to end up dead."

"So you hung out in the bar and waited for people who needed a hired gun to show up? Does that happen often? People just show up at your door, somehow knowing you're for hire?"

"Happened with you, didn't it?" he replies.

She shakes her head. "That's different. I knew you were there and I went looking for you."

"How'd you know where to find me?"

She's quiet for a minute and he's not sure if she's going to answer, but he doesn't push. She never responds well when she's pushed. Eventually, she says, "Someone told me I'd find what I needed in Goodneighbor. I was desperate enough to try anything. And it turns out she was right. Once I got into town, you stood out like a beacon. I couldn't have stayed away if I tried."

He's not sure what that means, but he has grown to recognize the invisible lines between what she will tell him and what she won't. This answer isn't going to get any clearer. "Well, anyway," he says, "plenty of people come through Goodneighbor looking for the kind of work I do. Word got around. I had enough jobs, more or less. It was tight, though. I needed every cap I could get."

"What for?" she asks. "The way you shoot, you could easily scavenge enough to get by without working for anyone."

"Yeah, well, I needed to do a little more than just get by," he says. She doesn't reply, just waits, walking quietly beside him. It occurs to him that he's telling her way more than he meant to, and certainly more than she's told him. But for all her secrets, he finds himself trusting her anyway. "Right before you found me, someone else tracked me down. These two assh... uh, idiots who I used to work with. Winlock and Barnes. They'd been hounding me for months, driving off clients, threatening me. Nobody wanted to work with me once they heard I used to run with the Gunners."

She stiffens, stopping dead beside him. His stomach drops - of course, she didn't know he used to be a Gunner, and he had to open his big mouth like a complete jackass and now she's going to hate him because _everyone_ hates the Gunners.

"How long were you with them?" she asks. Her face is expressionless, unreadable in the moonlight.

He hesitates, but quickly decides against trying to lie. She'd know. "About six months," he says. "I didn't like it, but the money was good, so I stayed for a while. Eventually, I just couldn't take the way they did things anymore and I went out on my own. Turns out they don't like that. They've been hassling me ever since."

"When did you leave?"

"Maybe three months before we met? I'm not sure. Days all kind of ran together."

She nods at this, frowning thoughfully. "Were you with them when they took Quincy?"

"Quincy? No, I wasn't there," he says. "I was part of another group, further north. But I heard about it."

"And those two who are bothering you - Winlock and Barnes - were they at Quincy?"

"Actually, yeah," he says. "Apparently they did a good job there. As a reward, they were promoted and came to lead the group I was part of. Now that I think of it, that was kind of the last straw for me. It was bad before they got there, but they made it a lot worse." He watches her; she doesn't look angry, just like she's thinking hard. "Why all the questions about Quincy?"

"I'll explain in a minute," she says. "They were the reason you needed so many caps?"

"Yeah," he says. "I figured, if I could get enough caps together, maybe I could buy them out. Get them to back off."

"You think they'd make a deal?"

He shrugs. "Maybe, if I could figure out a way to pull it off. I don't trust them. Good chance they'd take the caps and kill me anyway. Plus, when they showed up in the Third Rail, I might have pissed them off a little. That probably didn't help."

She laughs. "You were a smartass, mouthed off, and pushed their buttons? Gosh, that doesn't sound like you at all."

"Yeah, whatever," he says, but he's relieved. If she's teasing him, she's probably not too upset about the Gunner thing. "If I set up a place to meet them and pay them off, they'll probably roll in with a small army of Gunners."

"Sounds like we need to take the fight to them," she says. "I have an idea."

MacCready looks at her, a little startled. "So... you're okay with this?"

"They're mercenaries and so are you. It's not that much of a surprise. I'm glad you left, though," she says. "I've run into them before and I'm not a fan."

"Yeah," he says. "Working for you is a far cry from working for the Gunners. Glad that's behind me. So what's your idea?"

She smiles. "Well, that's why I was asking about Quincy." She takes a deep breath and turns, walking along the tracks again. He falls into place beside her. "This is kind of a long story, but I did promise to tell you how I became general of the Minutemen."

He shakes his head. "I thought you were going to tell me about Quincy?"

"I am," she replies. "It's all tied together. Just listen."

"Okay, boss," he says. "Listening."

"Okay. Right." She fiddles with her pistol, frowning down at her feet for a few steps. "So, I haven't been in the Commonwealth that long. I... arrived maybe three or four months before we met. Before I was here, I was in another place where I had some people who... took care of me. Kind of." She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "They provided me with the contact I need, they way you do, but also _not_ the way you do, you know?"

He shakes his head. "You lost me."

"It's hard to explain," she says. "But think of it like... like getting enough to eat. The place I was before, they gave me just barely enough. I wasn't going to starve, but I was always hungry. You know what it's like to be hungry for so long that it sinks in and you just get used to it? You forget it's possible to feel any other way."

"Yeah," he says softly. "I know what that's like."

She gives him a long, level look. "Yeah. Well, that's how it was for me there. I was always tired and sick and in pain, always getting just enough to survive. I hated it, and I hated them." Her voice is flat, vicious, and it makes him think of the side of her he sees in combat. Cold, dangerous, and lethal for anyone in her way.

"But you got out?"

"Sort of," she says. "How I wound up here, now, is... well, it's crazy. And I'm not going to go into it. But bottom line, I was alone. I knew I needed to find people, and I needed to do it fast. I was far to the northwest of here, in an empty old pre-war town called Sanctuary. I got on the road and I started walking toward civilization. Or, as close as we get to it these days. First place I came across was Concord."

"Not what I'd call civilization."

She shakes her head. "No, not so much. Full of raiders. But I also ran into this little group of settlers. They were what was left of Quincy."

"All the way up in Concord? That's a heck of a walk."

"Yeah, and it cost them. They were twenty when they started out, mostly settlers with some Minutemen watching over them. By the time I met them, there were five left. The guy trying to hold them together and fight off the raiders was Preston Garvey. The last Minuteman in the Commonwealth."

MacCready gives a low whistle. "Sounds like a losing fight."

"It was." She shakes her head. "They were in a bad way. They'd lost so many, and he was trying hard, but I think he was about ready to give up. People get a certain look when they stop caring about staying alive. I've seen it before." She trails off, a look on her face like she's a million miles away. He wonders what she's remembering. "Anyway," she says, "he asked for my help. I was in pretty bad shape by that point and I needed friends. I was in no position to say no. So I wiped out the raiders and got them out of there. They wanted to head back to Sanctuary, to try and settle there, and I went with them."

"So how'd you end up as the general?"

"I'm coming to that," she says. "I did warn you it was a long story. See, Preston is dedicated. I don't even know if that's a strong enough word. Maybe _obsessed_ would be better. He was bound and determined to bring back the Minutemen, to save everyone. Soon as we got to Sanctuary, he had another job for me. Another settlement needing help."

"And you said yes."

She spreads her hands, nodding. "Of course I did. Like I told you, I needed friends. He agreed to come with me if I got Sanctuary set up right first. A few beds, some crops in the ground and some water pumps, and a few defenses. Just the bare bones of a settlement but it was enough for them to build on. I did it as fast as I could. I was getting worse."

"So... what do you do, in that situation?" he asks. "I mean, how do you have that conversation? 'Hey, Preston, I'll totally help that settlement but first I need a lot of hugs or I'm going to die.' How did that go over?"

She laughs ruefully. "That's the thing. I didn't know how to ask. The place I was before, they knew what I needed. They used it to control me. I never had to bring it up, to explain it. And it's not exactly an easy thing to make someone understand. I know it's bizarre. I know it doesn't make sense. I don't even know why I need contact this way, just that I do."

He blinks at her, startled. "You don't know why?"

"That surprises you?"

"I guess I just figured..." He shrugs. "Well, I assumed it was just one of those things you don't talk about."

"No. I wish I knew, then maybe I could _fix_ it. I've just always been like this, as long as I can remember."

"Oh." MacCready thinks about that for a minute. "But eventually you must have told him. I mean, you're not dead."

"Not for lack of trying," she says dryly. "At first, I tried to engineer situations that would require contact. Getting drenched in a rainstorm and then telling him we should huddle up for warmth when we camped. Finding a hiding place when there were enemies nearby and winding up scrunched together because there wasn't enough room for both of us. I even let myself take a few hits so he'd have to touch me when he treated the wounds. It was kind of pathetic."

MacCready can't help it. He starts to snicker. She elbows him in the side, shooting him an indignant glance. "It's not funny," she grumbles.

"Yeah, it kind of is," he says. "You sound like a bad porno. 'Oh no, we got wet, we better take off our clothes and cuddle for warmth.' That's got to be the oldest one in the book."

She rolls her eyes, but she's grinning. "We didn't take off our clothes. I couldn't talk him into it."

"Seriously? You walked up to a guy, told him to lay down with you naked, and he said _no_? Is he actually human?"

"We wouldn't have been _naked_ ," she says. "Not completely. And anyway, eventually he caught on to what I was doing and started touching me more. It helped that I was doing what he wanted, rebuilding settlements, helping people. He loved that stuff. Didn't take long for him to decide I was the one to save the Minutemen, and I should be the new leader. The first time he called me general, it didn't mean a whole lot. It was just him and me, so I was the general of a two person army."

"Seems like it's a lot bigger now," MacCready points out.

"Yeah, we've done pretty well," she agrees. "Taking back the Castle was a turning point for us. Once we got the radio working, we could really pull people together. I'd helped enough settlements that we had a lot of volunteers, and we stationed them out, giving them all radios of their own so we could stay in touch. That's how I knew that the Hangman's Alley settlement needed help with water, and that's why the Minuteman at the front guard post knew me."

He nods, thinking it over. "So things were going pretty well for you with this Preston guy. Why'd you end up in Goodneighbor looking for me?"

She sighs and shakes her head. "Things weren't going as well as you think," she says. "The Minutemen were growing by leaps and bounds, but I was running out of time."

"I don't get it," he says. "You said he caught on, was giving you what you need."

"It wasn't enough." She shrugs, glancing over at him. "It was never going to be enough. What I need is more complicated than just contact. Not all people are the same. Some are... better at it. Or there's something about them, something in them that makes it work better. Preston is a good man, honest and kind and selfless, but he was nowhere near enough. If we go back to my whole 'hunger' analogy, with Preston it was like trying to survive on one tato a day. It's better than nothing, but I was still going to starve. It was just going to take longer."

"And it works better with me?"

At this, she grins, wide and brilliant. "God, yes. _So_ much better. I couldn't even believe it at first. You remember the first time we slept together, in Goodneighbor, and how excited I was when we woke up?"

"Hard to forget," he says.

"Well, that's because for the first time, like the first time _ever_ , I actually felt _good_. Imagine what it it's like to be hungry your whole life, to be sick and hurting and exhausted, and then one day you wake up and it's all gone. Nothing hurts, you're not hungry, you feel warm and rested and _healthy_ and like... you're finally a whole person. It was _incredible_. That's what I mean when I say you're so good at this. I don't know what it is about you, but it works. And it _keeps_ working. Every time, it feels just as good."

"Oh," he says, a little lost. It's some quirk of biology or chemistry or whatever that makes him have what she needs. And if he didn't have it, she would never have looked twice at him. Certainly wouldn't want to _touch_ him. He nods to himself, pressing his lips into a thin line. That's fine. Whatever. It's a job and apparently he's good at it, so. Good.

She's looking at him. He glances away, staring up the path ahead. They're nearly to the river, the tracks stretching across in a narrow bridge. The water looks black and depthless in the moonlight.

"There was another reason I couldn't keep traveling with Preson," she says softly. "He started to take things the wrong way. I can't really blame him; by that point I was sleeping next to him every night and touching him every chance I got. It's only natural he'd assume I wanted more."

MacCready nods. He has the uneasy sense they're not just talking about Preston.

"That's why it was important to be up front with you about what I need," she continues. "Like I said - a clean, simple business arrangement. I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Yeah," he says. His voice comes out mostly level. "I got it, boss."

~~~


	8. Sanctuary

They make trade deals in Greygarden. The place has a surplus of crops, and since they're all robots and don't need to eat, they don't really have any use for the food. They just keep farming it because that's what they're programmed to do. They seem fond of Emma - something about clearing out a water treatment plant a while back. She gets them to agree to send food through her supply line system in exchange for the tools to do some repairs and build some better defenses.

While she's talking with them, MacCready scrounges up a meal and a place to sleep. They don't have any beds, because why would robots have beds, but there's some plywood and cinderblocks lying around. He throws together a lean-to near some old steel consoles and a workbench. He finds a couple musty old hunks of carpet and folds them over, creating a surface that is at least a little softer and smoother than sleeping directly on the ground.

It's a lot of physical effort for something they might not even use, depending on how long they stay here, but he does it anyway. It helps to keep busy.

By the time she comes looking for him, the sky is pink in the east and he's tired, his shoulders sore from hauling junk and his legs worn out from walking most of the night. They're running on about four hours sleep out of the last twenty-four. At least he won't have any trouble falling asleep.

"Good idea," she says, looking at the lean-to.

He nods, rolling out their sleeping bag. He tucks his pack in the far corner of the little shelter and props his rifle up against it. He doesn't bother to remove his boots.

"Hey," Emma says, "look at me."

He hesitates, realizing he's been avoiding just that. "We should get some rest," he says, fiddling with the rusty zipper on the sleeping bag.

"MacCready."

He sighs, folding his arms. "What?"

She sits beside him on the makeshift bedroll. He's still looking down, and he catches his breath when she touches his face, soft fingertips on his jaw. She slides her hand up, palm on his cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. "It's okay," she says softly. "Come on, look at me, let me see."

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, then takes a measured breath and turns to face her. He doesn't say anything - he can feel so many things wanting to be said, filling up his throat and pressing against his lips, he's not sure what would come out.

"Are we okay?" she asks.

He nods. "Sure."

"Yeah?" Her hand is still on his face, light and cool, and he wants to lean into it. Wants to turn and press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. How did he think this was going to be okay? This is not even slightly okay.

"Yeah, boss," he says, but it sounds unconvincing even to him. She's looking at him with warm concern that seems way too close to _pity_ for his liking. He scowls and lifts his chin, shaking off her hand. "I said it's fine," he says, a little sharper than he intended. "We had a deal, right? A business arrangement?"

She pulls her hand back. "Right," she says. She opens her mouth, then seems to change her mind and closes it again. Instead, she just nudges him into place beside her, curling against his chest.

He settles into the familiar position. He rests his forehead against the back of her shoulder and closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm of her breathing. _It's fine_ , he tells himself fiercely. He can do this. He just needs to get his head straight. This is all for Duncan and he needs to stick with it until he's got that cure. After that, he's done. Let her find someone else to do this. He can't anymore.

~~~

After Graygarden, they follow the tracks further north for a while. It's a quiet walk; the afternoon is gray and drizzly, muffling sounds and limiting their visibility. Soon they're both soaked to the skin. MacCready's clothes cling to him, uncomfortably clammy, and his feet squish wetly in his boots with every step. He slogs on anyway, squinting against the rain.

Eventually the tracks cross a road running toward the northwest, and she takes them on it. He doesn't ask where they're going. They run across a few bloatflies and some wild mongrels but no real problems. Enemies seem few and far between out here.

A battered building comes up on their right; looks like an old diner. "We could go in there," MacCready says. "Get out of the rain."

She nods. "Yeah, that's Drumlin Diner. I know Trudy, the owner. She'll let us in. Probably have a few things for trade, too."

"Is there anyone in the Commonwealth you're not friends with?" MacCready mutters.

"A few," she says dryly. "Come on."

Trudy does indeed know her, and is happy enough to sell them both some hot food. She even lets them sit in a battered booth for a while, waiting out the rain. MacCready wrings out his duster as best he can, leaving a dirty puddle on the floor.

Emma sits across from him and cups both hands around her bowl of soup. "Hey," she starts, "earlier, we were talking about those two Gunners. Winlock and Barnes. We got sidetracked and I never told you my idea to deal with them."

He sits up a little straighter. "Yeah? What did you have in mind?"

"I think we need to take them out."

"No argument here, but that's easier said than done," MacCready replies. "They're going to be holed up at the Mass Pike Interchange. Up on the overpass, on the high ground, with plenty of defenses, and quite a few Gunners. Won't be easy to take out."

"That's why I was asking about Quincy," she says. "Like I said, those settlers I met at Concord came from there. They all lost people. Preston lost people too. If they hear we're going to take down some of the men responsible, they'll want in."

MacCready shakes his head. "Maybe Preston - at least he sounds like a soldier. But a bunch of settlers? That's a suicide mission."

"They're tougher than you think," she replies. "They had to be, to make it all the way across the Commonwealth. There's two of them in particular I'm thinking of - Jun and Marcy Long. They lost their son in Quincy. He was seven. I've seen what that loss did to them. Marcy is angry, bitter, mad at the world. Jun is withdrawn and depressed, fading more all the time. Killing Winlock and Barnes won't bring back their son, but at least it will give them some measure of satisfaction. Some kind of justice."

He can't help thinking of Duncan - of what he'd do to anyone who hurt him. He nods slowly. "Yeah, okay. If they're well armed, and careful."

"Of course." She smiles. "The good thing is they're still at Sanctuary. That's my primary settlement and it's the one with the best gear and supplies. We can upgrade all our stuff while we're there and make sure we're well equipped. I bet we can get some Minutemen to join us for the fight, too."

"So that's where we're headed now? Sanctuary?"

She raises her eyebrows. "You didn't know... no, of course you didn't, because I never told you." She sighs and gives him a slightly sheepish smile. "Sorry. I get so used to keeping everything to myself, sometimes I overdo it. It's okay to ask about stuff like that."

He shrugs. "It's fine, boss. I'll go where you tell me."

A frown tugs at her mouth. "You're my partner, MacCready, not the hired help."

"You sure about that?" he asks, sharper than he'd meant to.

"Yes," she says firmly, meeting his eyes. "You're important to me, whether you believe it or not. I thought I'd made that clear."

"Only cause you'd get sick without... whatever it is I'm doing for you," he replies. "That's what you've made clear."

A hurt look flashes across her face and he regrets the words, but it's too late to take them back. "That's not true," she says, and he's alarmed to hear the waver in her voice. He's never heard her sound less than sure of herself and he doesn't like it at all.

"Look, boss... Emma," he says, softer. "I didn't mean... this is just, it's confusing. You know? You're confusing."

"I know," she says. "For what it's worth, I'm... I'm not doing so great at keeping track of where the lines are myself. It's my first contracted cuddling arrangement."

He can't help but smile, and she laughs a little, shaking her head. "Yeah, kind of a weird situation," he says.

"No kidding," she replies. "I've been closed off for a long time. On my own. I'm not great at letting people in. But I want you to know that this thing, us working together, it's not just about keeping me alive. Maybe it was at first, but not anymore. Okay?"

"Okay," he says. He slides his hand across the table. She blinks at him, and a slow, sweet smile spreads across her face. She laces their fingers together and squeezes.

~~~

The rest of the walk to Sanctuary is a little easier. It helps that the rain has tapered off, but it helps more that they've cleared the air a bit. MacCready feels like there is still something lying unspoken between them, but it's better than it was.

They arrive about an hour after dawn. He eyes the statue of a soldier at the south end of a rickety wooden bridge, but doesn't comment. On the other end of the bridge, there's a thick wall made mostly of junk - old tires and cinderblocks and plywood, topped with a spiral of razor wire. Two heavy turrets bracket the gate, and a raised wooden platform behind the wall holds a reinforced guard post. A battered blue Minutemen flag waves from atop a power pylon.

On top of the guard post, a woman holding a rifle peers at them, a cap shading her eyes. "General?" she calls. "That you?"

"Yeah," Emma calls back.

The woman turns toward the settlement and cups her hands around her mouth. "Hey!" she hollers, "the General's back!"

Emma gives MacCready a wry smile. "Brace yourself."

"What?"

A furry brown blur races through the gap as the gate opens and MacCready barely has time to react before the dog is on them, jumping up on Emma and wagging his tail a mile a minute. He's barking and licking her and she's laughing, and then MacCready finds himself on the receiving end of a very enthusiastic face-licking.

He sputters, scrubbing his sleeve across his face as the dog bounds around them, barking happily. "He likes you," Emma says.

"Great," MacCready replies. "That's just what I needed, dog slobber." But he can't help grinning.

Emma looks up - there are several people coming across the bridge. Her expression sobers. "Here we go," she mutters. "Stay with me."

Things happen fast after that. He's introduced to so many people in such a short time that he has no chance at all of remembering their names. People are tugging at Emma, chattering at her, asking questions and handing her things and taking other things - she passes off her pack and her shotgun, but leaves her pistol holstered. MacCready glares when they try to take his pack as well, and they back off.

Someone wants to know if they've eaten and someone else wants to know if they have any messages from the Castle, or if they've heard about the attack at the Starlight Drive-In, or if Emma brought them any more gears to repair the turrets. They talk over each other in their excitement and she can't get a word in edgewise.

"All right, come on, give her some room," someone says, coming up from behind the crowd. "Amy, Elijah, Rick, aren't you on guard duty? Lily, Sam, Rufus, back to farming. Those crops aren't going to weed themselves. Sturges and Ben, you still working on stripping the steel off that ruined house?"

There is some grumbling, but the crowd disperses. MacCready thinks this has got to be Preston Garvey - complete with laser musket, scarf, and the silliest hat he's ever seen. Emma smiles at him. "Thanks, Preston. You're sure keeping them in line, huh?"

He shrugs. "They're happy to have you back. Good to see you again, General." He steps in, going for a hug, which Emma returns easily enough. MacCready stands there, not sure if he should introduce himself.

Emma does it for him, pulling him over with a hand on his arm. "This is MacCready," she says. "He's with me."

"Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen," Preston says, nodding at him. "Good to meet you."

He doesn't waste any time after that, leading them both deeper into the settlement. He's talking to Emma, pointing out where they've built new homes, planted more crops, installed more power lines, and shored up defenses. She's nodding, following along and asking questions and MacCready just trails along behind them. He muffles a yawn with one hand. Her habit of traveling at night means they're always out of sync when they arrive at a settlement. He hopes she's not planning to stay up all day.

They come into some kind of dining and rec hall - MacCready has to admit, it's fairly impressive. There's a well equipped kitchen taking up one side of the room and a mismatched array of tables and chairs. Stairs lead up to a balcony with couches, a powered jukebox, and a pool table. There's even a fully stocked Nuka-Cola machine. The building is clean and warm, with actual glass in the windows and a roof that looks like it might keep the rain out.

They head up to the balcony, quiet at this time of day with everyone out doing their work. Emma sinks into a couch and gestures at him to sit by her. Preston settles across from her, still talking. They're going over strategy now, resources and troop movements, which settlements have had problems with raiders and super mutants and how they should handle their defense.

MacCready tilts his head back on the couch and tunes it out. The jukebox is playing _I Don't Want to Set the World On Fire_ , soft and dreamy. He thinks about resting his eyes for a minute, decides it would be a bad idea. Emma apparently feels safe here but he's not ready to let his guard down.

Instead he leans forward, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Hey boss, I'm going to try and find some breakfast. You want anything?"

She shoots him a quick smile. "Yeah, I'm starving, thanks."

He heads back down to the kitchen. There's a man behind the counter with an apron on, stirring something in a pot. He has a beaten expression, his mouth drooping downward at the corners, his eyes tired and sad. He's staring off into space and doesn't seem to notice MacCready standing there.

"Hey," MacCready says. "You selling food?"

The man starts, looking at him. "Oh, uh... you came in with the General, didn't you?"

"Yeah. I need something for both of us."

"If you're with her, the food's free," the man says. "Sorry, I'm... I was distracted. Let me just get the, uh..." He trails off, fumbling with a couple bowls. He's got dark circles under his eyes and the dazed, fixed look of a chronic insomniac. He ladles hot grain porridge into the bowls, then lays them on a tray with some melon slices and a plate of some kind of meat, fried in thin strips.

"Thanks," MacCready says. He waits a beat, then adds, "Maybe some spoons or something, too?"

"Oh, right." The man digs into a bucket and comes up with two spoons. "Here. Sorry."

"It's fine." MacCready hesitates a moment - he's not all that eager to rejoin the endless Minutemen discussion upstairs. "I'm MacCready, by the way."

The man blinks at him. "I'm Jun. Jun Long. Welcome to Sanctuary, MacCready."

Something unpleasantly cold and heavy sinks in MacCready's stomach. His first thought is that this man will absolutely be a liability going up against the Gunners. He can barely serve food; there's no way he can handle himself in a serious fight.

His second thought is guiltier - he wasn't at Quincy, but he easily could have been, if he'd been stationed further south. He did plenty of things with the Gunners he's not proud of, and that included sacking more than a few small towns and settlements. He's probably left survivors just like this, so stricken by grief they became hollow shells.

He pushes that thought down and gives Jun a thin smile. "Thanks." Then he turns and heads back up the stairs.

He puts the tray down on a coffee table in front of the couch and sinks back into place by Emma's side. She looks at him; a long, sweeping glance that probably involves that mind-reading trick of hers. He tilts his chin up, daring her to comment.

"Thank you," is all she says. He nods.

They eat their breakfast while she and Garvey talk strategy. MacCready isn't exactly excluded - he's sitting right there, after all - but he's not involved either. She hasn't brought up the Gunner mission yet, still taking notes as he lists all the settlements that need help.

At some point morning chores must wrap up, because settlers start to trickle into the building. Most of them find their way upstairs, asking Emma their questions. At least it's one at a time now, but it still seems to be an endless stream. She's starting to look a little strained around the eyes, her jaw held in a tense line and her shoulders hunched.

"Hey boss, how long is this going to go on?" MacCready interrupts. "We getting any shut-eye today or what?"

She flashes him a grateful smile. "Good idea." She stands, shrugging off a few disappointed noises from the settlers. "I'll be here at least a few days, guys, you'll have your chance. We've been traveling all night."

She leads them out of the building and up the street, hurrying before anyone else decides to talk to them. There's a small, tidy wooden house built on the foundation of one of the old pre-war homes. It's similar to the other houses all lined up in a circle around an enormous old elm, except that this one has a doghouse parked beside it and a Minutemen flag hanging from the eaves.

They duck through the door and she shuts it behind them, then turns and grabs him by the shoulders. She pushes him against the wall - not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough that he draws in a quick, startled breath. Then she's pressing against him, sprawled all over his chest, arms wrapped tight around his waist, face tucked into the hollow of his neck. She lets out a long, relieved sigh and relaxes.

"Oh that is so much better," she mumbles. "Thanks for getting me out of there."

He runs one hand up and down her back. She makes a pleased sound, so he does it again, his other arm going around her waist. "They sure like you here."

She scoffs. "I'm their problem fixer. Sometimes I swear these people couldn't find their ass with both hands and a flashlight."

That startles a laugh out of him and she giggles, her breath tickling his throat. "Garvey seems pretty sharp," he says.

"He's a good man. A good leader, whether he believes it or not. I just need to get him to stop depending so much on me." She sighs, one hand idly fiddling with his jacket. "We've got a pretty considerable force of volunteer soldiers at this point. We've improved their equipment and their training. I can't be the only person who fights off raiders or clears new settlements anymore. That's the whole point of the Minutemen - people pulling together, protecting themselves and each other. Not one person trying to save every settlement in the Commonwealth alone."

"He did seem eager to pile on the work."

She nods, then yawns hugely, stretching and settling more comfortably against him. "He always does. It comes from a good place; he truly wants to help people. He believes in what we're doing. Most of the time, I do too. But sometimes it gets a little overwhelming."

"Hmm." MacCready lets himself trail his fingertips through her hair. It's smooth under his palm, cool and soft. He brushes it back from her face, tucking a little behind her ear. She smiles sleepily at him. "So you got a bed here? This is nice, but I'd rather not stand here all day."

"Yeah, come on." It's more of a two-room cabin than an actual house, but the bedroom has a dresser and a rug and the cleanest bed he's ever seen. A steel frame, a thick mattress, and actual sheets and blankets, complete with plump white pillows.

"Where'd you get that?" he asks.

"Mmm? Oh, there's an old, empty vault up the hill from here. We took everything we could out of there. Pre-war beds are the _best_. We also scavenged working laundry machines, so the sheets are clean. You're going to love it."

She's already peeling off her armor and he follows suit, laying his pack and rifle down by the dresser. She takes off her boots, then shucks her coveralls, leaving her in a thin tank top and what look like men's boxer shorts. He hesitates, watching her. The room is dim, sunlight seeping in through the curtains (actual _curtains_ , it's so weird) and filling the space with a dusty glow. She looks golden in that light. A few weeks of being able to eat again has filled her out, softening some of the sharp, bony edges.

"Hey," she says, and he jerks his gaze up sharply, feeilng a hot flush rise to his face.

"Um," he says. "You going to sleep like that?"

"Yep." A smile is dancing around the corners of her mouth. She is _totally_ laughing at him. "Sanctuary is safe, and the blankets are warm. I don't often get to sleep this comfortably and I'm not missing my chance."

"Right," he says. "Yeah. Fair enough." He looks down at his clothes. He could at least take off the gun belts, he supposes. And the boots, of course the boots. And the duster, maybe.  
She rolls her eyes and then she's tugging at his lapels, undoing his buttons. "I'll make this easy for you," she says. "Consider it part of the job. Skin contact helps me a lot. Just go with it."

Weirdly, that does make it easier. He removes his layers until he's down to a pair of ratty long johns and a tee shirt. She is brisk, businesslike in taking each item from him and piling it in an untidy stack on the dresser. Then she turns the blankets back and they climb underneath.

MacCready stretches out with a long, low groan. The sheets are cool and smooth and he rubs against them just to feel the soft texture on his skin. "Oh man," he mutters. " _Wow_."

"Right?" she asks. She arches like a cat, pointing her toes down and reaching her arms up over her head. Then she curls, tugging him close, slipping a hand under his shirt to press against his back like she's got every right to touch him however she likes. She's facing him, not their usual position, but she slides down and tucks herself neatly under his chin.

MacCready is too sleepy and too comfortable to question it. He closes his eyes and feels himself sinking into the mattress.

"Hey, MacCready?" she says after a moment, her voice a little muffled against his chest. "You still awake?"

"No," he mumbles.

He can feel her smile. "Earlier, in the diner, when we were talking - you called me Emma."

He hesitates, then says, "Yeah. That a problem?"

She shakes her head. "No. I liked it. You could call me that again sometime. If you want."

He's not sure how to answer that. She's confusing him again - running hot and cold, distant and then welcoming. Calling her _boss_ helps him keep things straight in his head. Helps him remember what this is, and what it isn't. But if she's inviting him to use her name, maybe the rules have changed? With her, they seem to change all the time. It's frustrating and fascinating in equal measures.

Finally, he just says, "I'll think about it."

~~~


	9. Battle Plans

Emma wakes the way she always does - like a switch being flipped, all at once. She sits up in bed with a sharp indrawn breath and shoves at MacCready's shoulder excitedly. "Hey! It worked!" She holds out her hands, looking down at them. "Seriously, it is crazy how good you are at this."

Still half asleep, MacCready mumbles irritably into the pillow, "Do you have to be so peppy in the morning?"

"It's not morning," she says. "And we have to always sleep like this, wow. Skin contact is _awesome_."

"You did say it would help," he points out.

"Yeah, that was like ninety percent bullshit when I said it," she replies absently. "I just wanted you to take some clothes off. But it actually worked! You just keep surprising me with how good this is. I'm going to talk to _all_ the settlers before this wears off. And Preston! I will totally have that talk with him I've been avoiding. I can do it when I'm all charged up like this. For real, you'll keep sleeping like this, right? It's so _good_."

MacCready lifts his head up and squints at her. "Wait, say that again?"

"Which part?"

"The part about my clothes."

She looks at him blankly for a moment, and then her eyes widen. It's such a perfect ' _oh shit_ ' expression he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Instead of answering, she jumps out of bed and starts zipping around the room in that slightly manic way she has when she first wakes up. She yanks on some clean clothes and runs a quick hand through her hair (which does nothing at all to neaten it) before strapping on her pistol and shoving her feet into her boots.

"I'm going to talk to some people," she says. She's lacing her boots, carefully not looking at him. "We only slept for like two or three hours, so get some more rest if you want. I'll catch up with you later."

She's out the door before he can say anything else. MacCready sighs and flops back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling. A grin keeps tugging at the corner of his mouth. Emma is confusing and strange and could probably teach a master class in mixed signals, but he's starting to think his misguided crush is not entirely doomed after all.

~~~

He spends a good portion of the afternoon exploring the settlement - it's big, sprawling, and surprisingly full of odd little nooks and crannies. He even climbs the hill to the old vault, but he mostly just finds it creepy. It has an unmistakable dead, abandoned feeling. It comes across more like a graveyard than anything else and he doesn't linger.

Emma is busy settling disputes and having some kind of long and drawn out conversation with Preston that looks tense whenever he walks by, so he keeps his distance. Those two appear to have some complicated history and he's not interested in getting involved.

He grabs a late lunch at the dining hall - someone else has replaced Jun behind the counter and MacCready is relieved he doesn't have to face the man again. The food continues to be high quality, and it's late enough in the day that the bar section of the counter has opened up. They've got a pretty good selection and some kind of rigged refrigeration system, so he gets to enjoy the rare treat of cold beer.

He ends up making idle conversation with a Minuteman who has noticed the rifle on his back - they have a friendly debate over the merits of using a receiver chambered for .308s versus a .50 cal. MacCready is on the side of the .308s; they don't have quite the same punch, sure, but the ammo is much easier to come by and if the shot is aimed properly, they're still just as devastating.

Emma finds him there and drops heavily onto the stool beside him, propping her elbows on the bar and resting her face in her hands. The guy behind the counter pours some bourbon in a glass and sets it down in front of her without waiting to be asked.

"Hi," MacCready says after a moment, when she doesn't seem inclined to speak.

She grunts and reaches out for the bourbon, tossing it back in one swallow. She hisses at the burn and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. "Wow," she says roughly. "I always forget that is not nearly as good an idea as it seems."

He nods, giving her a wry smile. "Long day?"

"Yeah. But I got it all done." She gives him a sidelong glance, then seems to come to a decision. She grabs his hand, pulling him to his feet and toward the door.

"Where we going?" he asks, although it's pretty clear she's making a beeline for her little house. She hasn't let go of his hand yet.

"I just need a break."

She chivvies him through the door and onto the dusty couch, then plops down beside him. She grabs him by the wrist and slings his arm around her waist, then turns, pressing against his side, her face tucked into the hollow of his neck. She breathes out slowly, sagging a little, and hums. "Better," she mumbles.

He looks at her, then tilts his head, resting his cheek against her hair. After a few minutes, he asks, "Is it always like this for you?"

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "Just seems like... well, okay, I'm not sure how to put this. And don't take it the wrong way, alright?"

She lifts her head, frowning at him. "What?"

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. "You know what, actually, never mind."

"No, keep going," she says. "You're worried about something. Tell me."

"Are you an addict?" he blurts out, then winces. "No, not... see, this is what I mean, I didn't know how to say it. And I'm not talking about chems or booze or something, I've traveled with you long enough to see those aren't a problem for you. But, this thing we do. The contact. You want it more and more often, and you get so... well, so _high_ when we do this, and then when it's been a while you get worn out and you want it again except the amount of time between hits is getting shorter."

She's staring at him, mouth hanging open. "Wow."

He scrubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, this was stupid, I shouldn't have said anything. Forget it."

And now, weirdly, she's starting to smile, because of course she is. Of course she can't have a normal, predictable reaction to _anything ever_. "You're actually worried about me," she says.

He makes a frustrated noise. "Well, I mean... look, I just want you to be okay. Truth is, I haven't been able to rely on anyone since I was a kid. Everyone I've met has either tried to rip me off or plant a knife in my back. But you're different. You were willing to help me with Winlock and Barnes, even offering to get your people to join in, to take risks to help me out. I know we haven't gone after them yet, but... you said we would. And I believe you. I... trust you. That's kind of a big deal for me. I even think you may actually care about what happens to me. So, you know, it'd be great if you aren't on some kind of downward spiral here."

She laughs, then strokes a hand through his hair, bumping his hat off and rubbing the back of his neck. It's unexpected and way more intimate than he can handle just at the moment and he goes still, swallowing. "Of course I care about what happens to you," she says. "And you know... you're kind of right. About the addict thing."

He stiffens. "What?"

"No, not in a bad way," she says. "But I do start going into withdrawal if it's been too long. As for wanting it more often, that's partly because we're here, in Sanctuary, and everyone wants to _talk_ to me. It's fucking exhausting. I'd rather be running from super mutants than settling arguments over who really owns that stupid brahmin that keeps wandering into the crops."

He narrows his eyes. "What's the other part?"

"Well, you know," she says, shrugging. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, staring down at her hands. "It's just nice."

He can't help smiling a little. "You sure that's all it is?"

"Don't push your luck," she says, but she's grinning. "Seriously though, I'm okay. I'm not spiraling into anything. I can actually go quite a long time between contacts if I need to, but I figure, why should I do that when this is way more fun?"

"Well, as long as you're having fun."

"Hey, we live in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. You've got to take your fun where you can get it," she says.

"Yeah, fair enough." He settles a little more comfortably against her. She slings an arm across his chest and sighs.

"I set up a meeting with Preston and some other people," she says. "We'll have to go talk to them soon. Plan our attack on the Gunners."

He nods. "Yeah, I saw you talking to Preston today. Looked important."

She presses her lips together in a flat line and scoffs. "It was. Not fun, though. Remember I was talking earlier about how he needs to stop depending on me so much? Well, I finally had that conversation with him."

"How did it go?"

"Not terrible," she says. "Not great, either. Preston is an idealist, and he's incredibly committed to the Minutemen. I think he feels it as a personal betrayal when I have other priorities."

MacCready hums thoughfully. "But I bet you talked him around."

"Yeah, eventually. I think the other problem is that he just doesn't have confidence in his own ability as a leader. He wants me to make the decisions. Once I started mapping out how he can use our existing resources to help the settlements that have asked for it, he got the picture and was on board. I'll still be available to help on the big jobs, and that made him feel a little better."

"He's done great with Sanctuary," MacCready says. "I mean, I'm assuming this place was mostly him? I can see you building turrets and generators and stuff, but you don't strike me so much as the farming type."

She chuckles, shaking her head. "Yeah, this was all him. I'm going to tell him you said that."  
"Go ahead, but it'll take a lot more than that for him to warm up to me."

"What do you mean?"

MacCready raises his eyebrows. "Seriously? That guy definitely has a thing for you. And there's no way he failed to notice we both slept in your house. Which, you know, only has one bed. He's going to do the math, and it's not going to make him my biggest fan."

"Yeah, maybe," she concedes. "But trust me, he hates the Gunners way more. He'll be happy to pitch in if it means taking some of them out."

"Then I guess we should plan that attack," MacCready says.

She sighs and gets to her feet. "Suppose I've had enough of a break," she says. "Let's do this."

~~~

They meet in a workshop. There are bins and cabinets and battered cardboard boxes everywhere, full of a ridiculous amount of scrap. MacCready looks around, goggling a little at the collection. He sees old typewriters and broken telephones, rusty fire extinguishers and a huge pile of chipped, stained coffee mugs. One box holds nothing but a pile of cut crystal liquor decanters, glittering in the fading sunset. It is both spectacularly messy and bizarrely organized.

"Wow," he says. "I mean, I knew you were a packrat, but seriously, have you ever thought about maybe not picking up every single thing you see?"

"Oh, shut up," she says, rolling her eyes. "It's all useful. You just don't like carrying it."

"Well that's true," he replies. "Life as your pack mule does have its downsides."

She grins at him. "You know, next time I think I'll collect bowling balls, and hand them all to you."

"Okay, that's just _mean_."

She laughs, but sobers quickly when the others file in. Preston and Jun he's already met. The angry, sharp-edged woman must be Marcy, and Emma introduces the big guy in the overalls as Sturges. They settle around a small table.

"What is this about?" Marcy asks. "I have work to do."

"This is about Quincy," Emma says, "and the Gunners that took it."

That gets their attention. Jun looks up, the distant, unfocused expression wiped from his face. Marcy leans forward and grips the side of the table. Even Preston stiffens, looking grim. "What do you mean, General?" he asks.

"My friend here," Emma says, nodding at MacCready, "has gotten us some valuable information. We know the location of two of the key Gunners that were at Quincy. They're split off from the main group, in a more remote location, not that far from here. We don't have the fighting force we'd need to take back Quincy, not yet, but I believe these two are a reasonable target."

"Where are they?" asks Marcy. She's already poised like she's going to jump out of her seat and take off running the moment she has a target.

"Mass Pike Interchange," Emma says. "It will be a well defended location, but if we play it smart we can take it."

"I want in," Marcy says immediately. "I want to be there. I'm going to kill those bastards myself."

Emma nods, but holds up a hand. "I thought you might. That's why I wanted you here. But let me be clear - this is a dangerous mission. We will be outnumbered, and we will be going up against experienced, well-armed mercenaries. You could get hurt. You could die. My focus is going to be on the enemy; I'll do my best to keep you safe but I can't make any promises. I'm not going to sugarcoat that."

Marcy makes a dismissive gesture. "I don't care. I'm going."

"Me too," Jun says. They all turn to look at him, and he lifts his chin, stubborn. "I can do it. I've been practicing with some of the Minutemen. I'm good with a sniper rifle."

"You've been practicing?" Marcy asks. "I didn't know that."

"I had to," Jun replies. "I had to do _something_. When they... at Quincy, I couldn't stop them. I couldn't do _anything_. Maybe if I'd learned how to shoot sooner, things would've been different."

Marcy stares at him for a long moment. "It wasn't your fault, Jun. What happened to Kyle."

He meets her eyes. "Wasn't it?" Then he turns back to Emma without waiting for an answer. "I mean it, I'm in."

Emma nods. "Okay, good." She turns to Sturges. "I wanted to give you the option as well, but to be honest, you're extremely valuable to all of us as an engineer and I would hate to risk you this way."

"No argument from me," Sturges says. "I fix things, I tinker, but all out combat isn't really my style. Thanks for asking, though."

"Of course. How are we on power armor?"

"Three full sets," Sturges says. "In good condition. Plenty of fusion cores, too. The fourth set is missing the left arm and the helmet, but the rest of the pieces are in good repair."

"Alright, good," Emma says. She looks at Preston. "Are you joining us?"

"Damn right I am," Preston says. "You think I'd miss this?"

She smiles. "I hoped you'd say that. And can we spare a couple of our more skilled Minutemen?"

"I'll ask for volunteers," Preston says. "Plenty of people have run into the Gunners before. I'm sure there are a few who'd like a little payback."

"Excellent." She turns and shuffles through a stack of paper, then pulls one out and lays it on the table. It turns out to be a fairly detailed map, painstakingly hand drawn, showing most of the western half of the Commonwealth. She points to the place where the highways cross, just west of the river and north of Lake Cochituate. "This is where we're headed. It'll take about a day to walk that far." Then she looks at MacCready. "Once we get close, what's our best approach?"

He leans in, looking closer at the map. "They'll be up on the overpass. The only way to get up is to ride one of the lifts; the highway is completely broken on all sides, so you can't just walk up the road. The main lift will take you right into the center of their camp, but there's another lift, a little further north, here." He points at the place where the old onramps branch off from the main road. "If we want to sneak in, that's our best bet."

"Okay, good," Emma says. "That's not far from Fiddler's Green estates. I've been that way before. There are a few abandoned trailers that would make a good place to rest up before the attack."

Preston leans back, folding his arms. "How exactly do you know all this, MacCready?"

He hesitates. Emma puts a hand on his arm. "He's a sniper," she says. "He's scouted most of the high vantage points, both in the city and on the outskirts."

Preston clearly isn't buying this. "Really. All of them? In that much detail?"

"I looked closer at this one," MacCready says, "because the Gunners are there, and they've been harassing me. They know I'm a merc, and they don't like the competition. So yeah, I've checked them out. Thought about hitting the place myself, but it's too big a job for just me."

"So this isn't about helping us, about helping the Quincy survivors," Preston says, waving at Sturges and the Longs. "Sounds like we're the ones helping you."

"Preston, that's enough," Emma says sharply.

"Yeah, who cares why he's here?" Marcy snaps. "So what? He wants them dead and so do we. We don't have to be friends."

Preston's lips flatten into a thin line. He looks between Emma and MacCready, and sighs. "You sure about this?" he asks.

"I'm sure," Emma says. "I trust him. You can too."

There is a loaded pause, and then Sturges leans forward, clapping his hands together. "Well alright, then I guess we're set. The armory is pretty well stocked - I got enough supplies to mod out that .44 pistol that you wanted," he says to Emma. "And we've got sturdy combat armor for everyone who won't be in power armor. It's flat black, like you asked; I'm guessing you guys will be going in at night?"

"That's right," Emma says, flashing him a quick smile. "Preston, how much time do you need to round up your volunteers?"

"Give me a couple days," Preston says. "That will give you time to finish your weapon and armor upgrades, plus you guys can get some practice using the power armor."

"I can train with Jun a little," MacCready adds. "Do some long range work."

Jun gives him a grateful smile and nods. Emma squeezes his hand. "Okay," she says. "Let's get started."

~~~


	10. The Gunner Base

Jun turns out to be a fairly decent shot. His form is terrible and his breathing is all wrong, but he's got a great eye and, more importantly to MacCready, he's got the instinct. The innate skill of being able to feel where the bullet will go, and letting it happen. The rest of the behavior can be taught, but the instinct is either there or it isn't.

Emma works on her weapons; MacCready is pleased to see she's trading in her quick little 10mm for a mean-looking .44 revolver that packs a much heavier punch. She also spends a lot of time clanking around in power armor with Marcy and a couple Minutemen. She tells MacCready she has no intention of actually wearing the stuff on the job - way too loud, heavy, and clumsy - but she wants to show them how it's done.

Several of the other residents are interested in the upcoming mission; it's a small settlement and word has gotten around quickly. MacCready soon finds himself teaching a class, rather than a one-on-one lesson. They're all very impressed when he hits a wild mongrel across the river at 400 yards, and yeah, maybe he's showing off a little. It's fun, though; working with the Gunners, he'd gotten used to their attitude toward snipers - indifferent on a good day, downright scornful the rest of the time. He was typically viewed as too weak to do the real fighting, the up close bloody work that the rest of them seemed to relish. That was, until they needed someone to hit the nuke in the hand of a super mutant suicider from two blocks away, and then suddenly he was useful again.

By the end of the first full day of training, he's reasonably confident that Jun will be useful in the field. He's also glad that the man favors long range work over the brutal melee weapons he's seen Marcy practicing with. Working from a distance means Jun has a much better chance of surviving this. Maybe it's just leftover guilt from his time with the Gunners, or maybe he sees in Jun what he could become, if he ever lost Duncan, but MacCready very much wants him to live.

They spend some of the second day shooting, and some of it trying on armor. Emma finally talks him out of his beloved duster and into a newly sewn Minutemen jumpsuit. It is warm and well fitted, which he likes, and it has both sleeves, which is a plus. It's dark blue, and with the flat black combat armor strapped snugly over top, he feels like a ninja in a comic book.

Emma thinks this is _hilarious_ when he tells her. "Yeah," she says, giggling. "You're _totally_ a ninja. You adorable dork."

He grins and wiggles his eyebrows. "So you think I'm adorable?"

She rolls her eyes, but a pink flush touches her cheeks. "Yeah, whatever. You do look good, though. The blue brings out your eyes."

He blinks, a little startled. He's never sure how to react to a genuine compliment. "Oh," he says. "Uh, thanks."

"Fits nice, too," she says, and the wink she gives him is downright _saucy_ and okay, yeah, she is definitely screwing with him.

"Real funny," he mutters.

"Who's joking?" she says, then saunters off, leaving him standing there trying to figure her out. Which is kind of his full time job at this point, so nothing new there.

They go to sleep early on the second day - they plan to set out before dawn. Emma wants a slow, careful pace; no point in getting hurt or wasting ammo on the way. She talks him into wearing as little as possible when they go to sleep, on the (fairly flimsy, in his opinion) pretext that they'll have to sleep in armor for who knows how long after this, so they should take the chance while they've got it.

To be honest, he doesn't exactly put up much argument. There's something heady and decadent about lying on clean, soft sheets in nothing but his long john pants. She is soft against his chest, her arms and legs bare, in her tank top and shorts. She wriggles a litte, getting comfortable, pressing back against him. Then a little more, running her hands along his arm where it's draped over her waist. She brings his hand up to her face and rubs her check against his knuckles.

MacCready grits his teeth and takes a careful, measured breath. "Yeah, you gotta stop that," he says.

She goes still, then releases his hand. "Sorry."

"Not that part," he replies quickly. "The, uh, the wiggling."

It takes her a moment to get it, and then she starts to snicker. "Why? Having a hard time?"

"Shut up," he says. He can feel a hot flush creep all the way up from his chest, burning in his cheeks.

She wriggles again. Maliciously. She's still laughing.

"Come on, I mean it," he says, and he can hear the whine in his voice but seriously, this is just asking too much. She's so warm and soft and they're practically naked and there's only so much he can take. "Do you enjoy torturing me? What is your deal?"

"Don't be a drama queen," she retorts. "You'll live." Then she stretches, long and catlike, arching until the firm curve of her ass is brushing directly against his dick.

He hisses a sharp indrawn breath between his teeth and pulls her tight against his chest, letting her feel him. She goes very still. "Make up your mind," he says, murmuring the words in her ear. "You either want this, or you don't. But you've got to stop teasing me." He rolls his hips once, rubbing through the thin material of his pants, and even that is enough to light up every nerve, sparking sensation over his skin and sending a sweet low pang of arousal through his belly.

She swallows; he can feel her heart beating rabbit-quick where their chests are pressed together. "What about our business arrangement?" she asks. Her voice is small and breathless.

"Oh no you don't," he says. "You don't get to make up the rules as you go, _Emma_. I am not a toy. If you want this, then keep going. If you don't, then you have got to stop fu... messing with me. It is seriously making me crazy."

She struggles, pushing away from him, and he lets her go. She scoots to the far edge of the bed and sits up, turning to look at him. He can barely make out her face in the dark; a faint scrim of moonlight comes through the window and her eyes are a reflected gleam of light. "I'm sorry," she says. "You're right, I got carried away."

He sighs and sits up, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I don't know what this is," he says, gesturing between them. "I haven't even known you that long. And this whole touching thing, it's... it's like this artificial closeness, you know? Like we skipped all the usual getting to know you stuff and went straight to the good parts. Except it turns out maybe that was important stuff and we shouldn't have skipped it."

She nods. She's biting her lip, her hands knotted in the sheets, twisting them uneasily. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I'm not good at this. At being around people. At, you know, actual normal relationships."

"Yeah, well I can tell you that this, what we're doing? Definitely does not count as normal."

She laughs softly, nodding. "I know. It's just... look, where I was before, I know I haven't told you much about it. And I can't. But I was alone pretty much all the time. Isolated. That's why talking to the settlers and Preston all day was so exhausting for me; I'm just not used to it. And I think that's why I keep messing things up with you. I don't have any experience at this. I'm... well, I'm just _bad_ at this. At people in general."

He shakes his head. "See, that's not true. Maybe you think you are, but you've got to have some serious people skills to lead an army. Not to mention talking me into this crazy arrangement we have going. Heck, even talking Whitechapel Charlie into doubling his price for that warehouse job. You are definitely good with people."

"Yeah?" she asks. "You think so?"

"I do," he says. "I just wish you would tell me what you want, when it comes to... well, us."

"I would tell you if I _knew_ ," she says. "If you think I am completely in charge of this situation and messing with you because it's funny - well, that's not what's happening." She gives him a wry smile. "I mean, okay, some of it is funny. But most of the time I am totally winging it. Something seems like a good idea at the time, it feels good, and I go with it. All those settlers and Minutemen and everyone are expecting me to be the General and I have _no idea what I'm doing_. It's terrifying."

She sighs and pushes her hair back from her face, then rubs a hand over her eyes. "Listen, you are _important_. I've told you that a bunch of times but I'm not sure you get it. Not just because you're a good shot or a good teacher, and not even because you are literally saving me from horrible withdrawal every day, but because you're the only one I feel _safe_ with. Like I can screw up and you'll still be here. Like it's okay to be human and make a mistake once in a while. But I know there are limits and I'm glad you told me to stop. Tell me when I'm messing up. Tell me when something bothers you. Because I need you here with me, and the last thing I want to do is drive you away."

He has no idea what to say to that and he doesn't trust his voice anyway, so he just nods and reaches for her. She takes his hands, lacing their fingers together.

~~~

The early hours are damp and chilly when they set out. MacCready feels an immediate difference with the larger group; traveling with seven people is much different than when it's just the two of them. Besides Preston and the Longs, they have two Minutemen along, Everett and McGill. The Minutemen keep up pretty well, but they're volunteer militia, not trained and experienced soldiers, and they aren't used to walking for hours in full armor.

The Longs are even worse. Jun is quiet, at least, but he carries a perpetual air of melancholy that drags everyone else down. Marcy never stops complaining. Her power armor doesn't fit right, the path they're taking isn't straight enough, the terrain is too uneven, they're going too fast, then they're going too slow. By the time the sun is up, MacCready has developed a new respect for Preston. That the man managed to shepherd these settlers across the breadth of the Commonwealth without snapping and shooting them all is downright miraculous.

Preston himself moves at a steady pace, weapon held ready across his chest. Because Marcy, Everett and McGill are in power armor, they don't bother trying to sneak. The bulky metal suits are far too noisy and conspicuous for that. They just plod along, mowing down the occasional bloatfly or molerat.

They swing a little west to stop for lunch at Sunshine Tidings, but they don't rest long. They skirt around the old federal ration stockpile as they head further south; that place is always a magnet for raiders. As the day wears on, even Marcy gets quiet, too tired to complain. The pace is slow but relentless and they make it to Fiddler's Green estates by sunset.

They have more than enough firepower to easily wipe out the handful of feral ghouls infesting the trailers. They make camp and Emma hands out rations. "We'll rest for a few hours," she says. "I want to hit them in the middle of the night. Everyone try to get some sleep."

The Longs go into a trailer and shut the door; Preston and the Minutemen go into another. Emma pulls him into a third. There's a ratty, stained mattress on the floor and the splintered remains of some furniture. It feels like a steel coffin. "I can't believe people lived in these things," MacCready says. "I mean, I lived in a cave, but this is much worse."

"Yeah, I'm not a fan either," Emma says. She rolls out their sleeping bag and sets down her pack and weapon, but keeps her armor and boots on.

He watches her for a moment. "So, you're quiet today."

She flicks him a careful glance. "Just thinking."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Anything good?"

"Ask me again tomorrow, if we're still alive," she says.

"Come on, we'll be fine," he replies. "They'll never see us coming."

She says nothing until they're wrapped in the sleeping bag, MacCready on his side behind her in their usual way. She takes his hand; they're covered head to toe in clothing and armor everywhere else. "If any of them die doing this, that's on me," she says quietly. "I brought them here."

"They volunteered," MacCready points out. "They chose this. And don't underestimate them. Jun is a decent shot, those Minutemen are actually pretty tough, and I think Marcy Long might be the most terrifying person I've ever met."

Emma laughs and squeezes his hand. "Fair point. Did you see the way she went after those ferals?"

"With that machete?" MacCready gives a low whistle. "She went right for the throat, didn't she? I'm telling you, that is a scary woman."

Emma is quiet for a while. MacCready is nearly asleep when he hears her murmur, "A mother who's lost her child becomes something very dangerous. A lot of the humanity is gone."

He's not sure if he was meant to hear that - and he's not sure they're still talking about Marcy. He says nothing; just holds her a little closer and waits for her breathing to settle into the famiiar rhythm of sleep.

~~~

The weather favors them; a thick mist rolls off the river and blankets the ground. Visibility is low. Thanks to Emma's upgrades, Jun and MacCready have advanced recon scopes on their rifles, and they'll be able to see the Gunners even through the mist. The sky is overcast and the night is dark.

They leave Preston and the three in power armor just behind a ridge near the north lift. Jun, MacCready and Emma creep forward. Above them, the Gunner camp is visible as a bright spot in the fog. Sound carries in the damp air; MacCready can hear the rumbling whirr of turrets and clanking that might be someone in power armor, or might be an assaultron. Possibly both.

There is one guard at the base of the lift, leaning sleepily against the concrete pillar of the overpass. MacCready can see him sharply in his scope. "I can get him," he whispers to Emma. "Take the shot?"

"Not yet," she says. "That rifle has a suppressor, but no gun is perfectly silent. Let's make sure we have a plan first."

They pull back and join the rest of the group. "Alright," Emma says, pitching her voice low. "We're not all going to fit on that lift at once. We'll move in three teams. Jun and MacCready, you're our long range support. You'll take the guard at the base, then go up and find yourselves good vantage points. You've both got suppressors - I want you to pick off single targets without alerting the group. If two guys are standing next to each other, don't hit one and leave the other to raise the alarm. Both, or neither. You understand?"

"Got it," MacCready says, and Jun nods.

"Okay." Emma turns to the two Minutemen and Marcy. "You're next. You have the heaviest weapons, but they're loud, and you're not going to be very stealthy in that armor. I want you to find a good ambush point. Once they notice our snipers, they're going to come running. I want you to be waiting for them, but don't attack until they know we're here. Let's not lose the element of surprise any sooner than we have to. You make sure to protect Jun and MacCready. They're not nearly as armored as you are."

"We'll be ready, General," Everett says. Marcy rubs the hilt of her machete and doesn't answer.

Emma gives Marcy a hard look. "I'm serious about waiting," she says. "You'll get your chance to draw blood, and plenty of it. Don't be so eager that you get yourself killed."

"Don't worry about me," Marcy says, but it's unconvincing. MacCready thinks there's a good chance she's going to charge in, blade swinging, the second she has the Gunners in sight.

"Please, Marcy," Jun says, and there's something raw in his voice. "I can't lose you too."

Marcy blinks at him, and some of the bitterness drains from her face. "Okay," she says quietly. "I'll be careful."

"Thank you," Emma says. "Preston, you're with me. We're going to go to the second lift and take out the ground guards. When the fighting starts, most of them are going to to be focused on what's happening at the north entrance. We'll come up from behind."

"Careful, boss," MacCready warns. "That would work with raiders, but these guys are a little smarter. You'll still face plenty of resistance at the main lift."

"I'm sure," she replies. "But I want them confused, and feeling surrounded. In the dark, they may mistake us for a much larger force. I think this is our best bet."

MacCready doesn't like it; the plan puts him in relative safety, holed up behind cover and taking long range shots, while she wades into the most dangerous part of the base. It also separates her from the support of the Minutemen with their power armor and their miniguns.

She doesn't give him a chance to argue. "You two find your hiding spots and start choosing targets, but give Preston and I at least ten minutes to get to the second lift before you start shooting. Everyone clear?"

They are. Preston claps Everett and McGill on the shoulders and murmurs something encouraging to them. Marcy looks at Jun, then touches his face; he stares at her, clearly surprised, but he manages a wavering smile. Emma steps close to MacCready, hesitates, then flings her arms around him in a fierce hug. "Be careful," she whispers in his ear. "Don't die." Then she kisses him, closed lips brushing over the corner of his mouth, warm and fleeting, and turns away.

He watches her and Preston disappear into the swirling mist and lifts one hand to his mouth, touching with his fingertips.

"MacCready," Jun says, gesturing to him. "We're on."

"Yeah," he says. They come around the ridge and creep closer. MacCready lines up his shot, going for the head and making sure the bullet will come out the other side into the air, rather than ricocheting loudly off the concrete pillar. The .308 is powerful this close, and the man drops, most of his head blown away.

He pauses, listening for any alarm up above, but there's nothing. He and Jun step into the lift and start to rise; it is mercifully quiet. They keep as low as possible, each crouched in one corner, rifles up. As they reach the level of the highway, MacCready sees another guard standing at a fortified post, silhouetted against the glow of light from the main camp. They're in clear view if the guard looks their way. He takes the shot immediately, catching the man in the chest. He goes down with a faint, gasping cry and doesn't get back up.

They hurry to a concrete barrier, crouching behind it. MacCready hears the whirring of the lift going back down. "Okay," he whispers to Jun. "Start looking for a good vantage point. Stay away from the cars; they tend to explode."

Jun's eyes widen and he nods. "Should I stay with you?" he asks, a little hopeful.

"No. You want something high up, if possible, and with good cover. Try to have something solid at your back so nobody can sneak up on you. You see the board slats on those guard posts? A rifle barrel fits between them. Make sure your scope is clear but ideally they shouldn't be able to see anything but your gun."

Behind them, heavy, muffled footsteps and a faint clanking indicate the power armor group has arrived. MacCready glances over his shoulder. They have the sense to move quiet and slow, choosing their steps carefully to avoid the general clutter. Marcy is gesturing to the other two and they move up, finding places.

Jun nods at Marcy as she passes, and then he slides around the concrete barrier, headed for the guard post. MacCready looks around, and sees a set of old, rusted rungs set into the steel suspension of the bridge. He straps his rifle over his back and starts to climb.

He avoids looking down. He doesn't have any particular problem with heights, but it still isn't the most comfortable place to be. About thirty feet up, there's a catwalk stretching between two of the girders. It's broken in several places and sways alarmingly when he tries to put weight on it, but it holds. He sprawls on his belly, inching forward until he can sight down his rifle directly into the base.

Then he waits, feeling the wind tugging at him, listening to the faint groan of old steel. "Hold together," he mutters at the catwalk supports, giving them an uneasy glance. "It's a long way down."

He counts to sixty over and over, giving Emma her ten minutes. From here, he can see Jun; not in the guard post, but tucked against the side of it, by a section of junk fence. He's got his rifle poking through a hole in the fence and he's well covered from the front, but vulnerable if someone were to circle around. MacCready makes a mental note to watch his back.

Then he looks through his scope, finds a target sitting alone by a campfire, and takes his shot. The woman slumps forward, tumbling into the fire. Below him, Jun takes this as his cue and picks off a man walking along the edge of the overpass. They get one more each cleanly, and then Jun wings one and he goes down yelling, clutching his leg. Shouts rise from the base, and MacCready sees the red glow of an assaultron priming its laser.

The turrets start shooting blindly, spraying bullets, and MacCready clutches at the edges of the catwalk. He's got a good vantage point here, but very little cover. The first Gunners come around the barricade further up, throwing molotovs. There's a splash and a rush of heat as one hits below him.

Everett and McGill pop out and spin up their miniguns, mowing down the turrets and at least three of the Gunners. Marcy darts forward, surprisingly fast in the power armor, and lays into them. She's vicious, and thanks to the power assist from the servos, brutally effective. She takes one out at the knees and leaves him screaming on the pavement, then stabs him in the belly, gutting him. She's on to the next before the first one stops twitching.

MacCready spots the assaultron and draws a bead on it; his first shot just glances off the metal chest, barely slowing it down. His next catches the shoulder, destroying the joint and leaving the arm slack, but it keeps going. Jun sees what he's aiming at and he goes for the legs, hammering three shots in the left knee until the assaultron goes down, crippled but still active. It starts to glow brightly.

"It's gonna blow!" one of the Gunners shouts, and they scatter. MacCready catches one in the back as he's running. Then he covers his face as the assaultron goes up; he feels the heat and force of the explosion wash over him, and debris pings against his armor. The catwalk shakes and creaks, but holds together.

Further away, he sees the red flash of a laser musket. He can't hear Emma's .44 in all the other gunfire, and there's too much chaos and smoke to find her in his scope. He can smell blood and acrid gunpowder residue and the sweet, punky scent of that Gunner in the campfire, cooking.

MacCready grits his teeth and keeps firing. The Minutemen are being more careful with their ammo now, short bursts rather than a constant stream of bullets. Those miniguns chew through ammo fast and he knows they must be running low. Marcy is still advancing, slashing at everything that moves. She's shrieking something; he can't make out the words, but the sound is pure rage. It sends chills down his spine and it seems to have the same effect on the Gunners; they're starting to panic.

He hears frantic shouting as they call to each other - _Where are they? How many? Find them, damn it! Get her! Shit!_

He puts a new clip in his rifle and tries to find a target. The Gunner base is chaos, people running everywhere, bullets flying. He spots a man in power armor and hesitates - might be one of their own. Then the man turns, and MacCready can see his face in the scope; it's Winlock.

He's carrying a heavy combat shotgun and blasting away at someone - MacCready cranes his neck, trying to line up his shot. Winlock keeps moving, sweeping back and forth. He's got a target pinned down and he's facing toward the south end of the overpass, so it's got to be Preston or Emma.

MacCready pings him high in the back - he doesn't dare to aim for the fusion core, not if Emma might be close to him. The shot glances off his armor, but it's enough to get his attention. He turns, and then jerks when something hits him in the side. MacCready catches a glimpse of her; Emma has her pistol up and she's moving in.

He goes for the headshot but Winlock is still moving and the armor has a high ridge around the shoulders, protecting his neck. The bullet skates across the armor, hard enough to leave a gouge in the metal, but it doesn't hurt him. There's a red flash that must be Preston; it catches Winlock's arm but he shakes it off. He wheels and hits Emma full in the chest with the shotgun. She goes down.

MacCready is scrambling down the ladder before he has time to even think about the decision. He charges past Jun, weaves around the Minutemen who are mopping up the last of the Gunners, and sees Marcy standing over several pieces of Barnes, blood dripping from her machete. He has time to notice all this because he feels like he's running through thick soup, each step stretching out impossibly long. She's already on the ground and Winlock is standing over her with the gun and there's no way he can get there fast enough but he runs anyway.

He raises his rifle and shoots from the hip, not even using the scope. It's not at all what the weapon is designed for and his shot goes wide. He shoots again, and again. It's a slow machine, each bullet needing to be chambered, each spent shell spinning out behind him. His third shot catches Winlock in the leg by pure luck, and he lurches, shouting in pain.  
It doesn't take him down, but it's enough to give Preston a chance to hit him directly in the face with the laser musket. He never wears the helmet; it's his last mistake. MacCready can hear the sizzle and smell the burnt flesh. Winlock screams, dropping his shotgun, hands going to his ruined face.

Preston hits him again and he stops screaming. MacCready runs right past him; barely noticing the thud as he hits the ground. He can't tell if Emma is breathing.

He grabs a stimpak from his pocket and injects it in her chest. She jerks and gasps, and relief rolls over him in a glassy wave, muting all the noise around him and leaving him lightheaded. Beside him, Preston sinks to a knee, but has the presence of mind to keep his weapon up. "She okay?" he asks.

"I don't know," MacCready says. "She's alive."

"Do you need another stimpak?"

"Yeah, I think so." He checks her pulse; at first he can't find it at all and panic lurches in his chest, but then he gets it. Much too fast, and uneven, but it's there.

Preston hands him a stimpak, and then shoots at something over his head. MacCready ignores it. HIs rifle lies forgotten at his side and his back is completely exposed and it doesn't matter. He injects her again, then works his hands past the layers of her armor and clothing until he feels the skin of her belly. It is hot and slick with blood but he keeps his hands there, spreading them out, touching as much of her skin as he can.

Her eyes open for a moment, unfocused and dazed, and then flutter shut. "Come on," he says. "Stay with me, come on."

Her armor is a wreck, the chest piece nothing but tattered scraps, but it seems to have done its job. Her breathing is starting to even out, and when she opens her eyes again, they stay open. She stares up at the sky. MacCready leans into her line of vision. "Hey," he says.

She gives a slow blink. "Hey." Her voice is thin, and has a wet sound he doesn't like.

"Keep still," he says. "You're going to be okay."

She nods. "We get them?"

"Yeah." He tries to smile. "Remind me never to piss Marcy off."

Emma laughs, then winces, one hand going to her chest. "Ow," she mumbles.

"Easy," MacCready says. "I gave you two stimpaks aready. We need to let them work; if I give you another one too soon your heart rate could spike."

"Since when are you a medic?" she asks.

"When you've been shot as many times as I have, you learn pretty quick," he replies. "Is the touching helping at all? I wasn't sure."

"It's helping." She's fading again, eyes drifing shut.

"Whoa, hey, none of that," he says sharply. "You need to stay awake."

"M'tired."

"No, not okay," he says. He gives her a little shake and her face scrunches in pain but she doesn't open her eyes. "Boss? _Emma?_ " He shakes her again, hands slipping against her skin.

She draws in a sharp breath and gives a low moan of pain. "Shush," she says. "MacCready. Mmm... creee-deeee. God, that's a mouthful. You need a shorter name."

That startles a laugh out of him. "I have one. A shorter name. A _secret_ name."

Her eyes open to thin slits. "Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. But you have to stay awake or I won't tell you."

She grumbles and touches a hand gingerly to her chest. The pavement beneath her is stained with blood and her clothes are soaked. Her skin is ashen. She shivers, then hisses in pain. "Okay," she says. "Okay. I'm awake. Being awake _hurts_. That name better be so good."

She's slurring her speech like a drunk, dazed enough by the blood loss to be nearly incoherent. MacCready checks her pulse again. Still fast, but not as bad as before. What she really needs is a blood pack; she's lost so much that the stimpaks don't have the raw materials they need to heal her.

Preston puts a hand on his shoulder, then kneels down beside both of them. "We're clear," he says. "We got them all. How's she doing?"

"I'm great," she mumbles. "Stayin' wake. So awake. Lookit me."

"She's been better," MacCready says. "I don't want to move her yet. Do we have any blood packs?"

"I'll find out."

He's dimly aware of the heavy, clanking footsteps of power armor and some conversation going over his head. Something about McGill also being injured. Then Jun is beside him and he's rolling up Emma's sleeve, tapping the inside of her elbow with a practiced hand.

MacCready glances at him. "You know how to do this?"

"I used to run the drugstore in Quincy," Jun says. "Had to give lessons a few times on the right way to use radaway and blood packs. Keep her still."

He threads the IV neatly, then holds the pack up. In the dim light, it looks black. Emma twitches a little and blinks sleepily. "Hey Jun," she says. "Y'did good. You n'Marcy. Good."

Jun nods. "Yeah," he says. "You know, I think we did."

"Marcy okay?" she asks.

"Yeah, she's okay," Jun says. "She's helping McGill. He lost some of his armor and took a pretty bad hit from a frag grenade but he's going to be alright."

Emma nods. "We all here? Nobody died?"

"Nobody died," MacCready says. The blood pack is about halfway in and some color is coming back to her face.

"Good," she says. "You okay, MacCready? Didn't get hurt?"

"Not a scratch," he says. "You stole all the fun parts."

She grimaces and shakes her head. "Not fun."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Not that fun. You feeling any better?"

"Still hurts. But not as dizzy. Can breathe a little better."

Jun puts the empty blood back down and checks her pulse, then peels the armor and the remains of her shirt away from her chest. The flesh is ragged, but starting to knit sluggishly together. "I'm going to give her one more stimpak," he says. "We need to stop the bleeding. Then she's going to need lots of fluids, and lots of rest."

He injects the stimpak into the IV line, getting the drugs into her bloodstream. She groans as they start to work; MacCready can hear the dull pop of broken ribs coming together. She reaches for his hands and holds them tight, squeezing his fingers.

Preston crouches beside them and winces at the sight of her injuries. "I'm guessing she's not going anywhere tonight. McGill is up but he can't handle much walking. We're just going to stay here; it's the safest location around anyway."

MacCready nods. "I'll stay with her. You okay?"

"I'm good." Preston pauses for a moment, then adds, "Listen, your skill with that rifle, and especially the intel you gave us on this base... we all survived this and we have you to thank for it. I know I haven't been all that friendly, but I just wanted to say, I appreciate it."

MacCready looks up at him. "We couldn't have done this without you guys. All of you. So, thanks. And by the way, you shooting Winlock in the face? _Priceless_."

Preston grins. "Yeah, that was definitely my favorite part."

"God you two, get a room," Emma mutters. Preston laughs and shakes his head, then walks off.

"Oooh, that blood loss is really messing with you," MacCready says. "I think you actually thought that was funny."

"Smartass," she says. "Help me up."

"You sure?"

"I'm lying here half-naked in the middle of a bunch of dead Gunners," she says. "I'm sure."

She leans on him heavily but manages to walk to the nearest shack, which fortunately has a bed in it. MacCready lays her down and gives her a bottle of water. He opens another bottle and pours some into a bowl, then grabs a rag. "Hold still," he says. "Need to clean you up a little so we can see if you're still bleeding."

"And they say romance is dead," she says dryly.

He ignores this; it seems the safest course. He dabs at the blood on her chest and belly, trying to keep his touch as gentle as possible. He carefully does not let himself look at her breasts any more than strictly necessary. This is a medical procedure, not... anything else.

By the time he's got most of the blood off, she's finished her water. Her skin is still raw, but the deepest wounds have mostly closed; she has a few remaining cuts that are seeping a little blood but not a dangerous amount. MacCready removes his chest armor and unzips his jumpsuit, then pulls his undershirt off. "Here," he says, holding it out to her.

She gives him a slow, sweet smile and puts it on. "Thanks."

He nods. "Let's get some rest."

"You sure? Cause I wouldn't want to miss out on that secret name."

He freezes for a moment. "Boss, you know I was just saying that to keep you awake. I would've said anything."

"Yeah, that's not gonna work," she says. "It's cute that you thought it would, though."

"I..." He sighs and climbs into bed beside her. "Okay, yeah. I, like most people - but not you, apparently - do in fact have a first and last name. MacCready is my last name. It's what I usually go by. Some people... very _few_ people... know my first name."

"Is it something really embarassing?"

"No," he says. "It's just personal. I guess I don't let most people that close."

She looks pointedly at the way they're pressed together on the bed, his arm over her waist and her head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. "I'd say we're pretty close."

"We are... and we're not. You know?"

She's quiet for a few minutes. "There's a lot I haven't told you," she says. "And I think there's a lot you haven't told me. So, yeah. I know."

He nods. "Look, what you did for me tonight, taking out Winlock and Barnes - that means a lot. And I want to talk to you about it. But you're still recovering and we're both tired and, like you said, we're surrounded by dead Gunners. Not the best time."

She yawns and settles more comfortably against him. "Fair enough. And if you're not ready to tell me your name, that's okay. You tell me when you want to."

"I did promise I would," he says.

"Yeah, you did. And I think you keep your promises."

He thinks about the promises he's made to Duncan - to clean up his act, to be a better person, and to find his cure - and hopes she's right.

~~~


	11. Next Steps

They sleep late. MacCready stirs when he hears clanking footsteps outside, and he opens his eyes to sunlight streaming through the gaps in the shack walls. For once, Emma is still and quiet, not bolting out of bed.

He presses his cheek against the back of her shoulder, then closes his eyes and feels her breathing. It's steady and strong. He's got one hand against her belly, under the shirt, and her skin feels smooth and flawless. She's probably fully healed by this point; she always seems to bounce back so fast with a few stimpaks and some rest. It would be easy to forget how close it was.

He turns his head, nosing into the mess of her hair until he reaches the nape of her neck. He drops a soft kiss there; just one. Then he unwinds himself and climbs out of bed.

She makes a sleepy grumble but doesn't wake. He leaves another bottle of water beside her, straps on his rifle, and ventures out, squinting against the bright sunlight.

Preston and Everett are moving around in power armor; they seem to have commandeered the armor that Winlock was using. They're hauling bodies off the road and dumping them over the side. A little further up the overpass, McGill sits sprawled across a battered sofa, one leg heavily bandaged and stretched out in front of him. He looks pale, but stable. MacCready looks around for Jun and Marcy.

"They're at the north end," Preston says, stopping beside him. The front of his power armor is spattered liberally with blood; MacCready wrinkles his nose and takes a few steps back.  
"They okay?" MacCready asks.

"Yeah." Preston considers for a moment. "I think they're better than they've been for a long time, actually."

MacCready nods. "Good."

"How's the General?"

"Resting," MacCready says. "She's looking good. She's a quick healer."

"Really?" Preston asks. "When I traveled with her, it would always take days for her to recover from a serious hit."

"Oh." MacCready hesitates, fiddling with the strap of his rifle. "She's doing better now."

Preston nods slowly. "Yeah. I noticed that."

MacCready shrugs, not sure what to say. "So, uh... need a hand?"

"Nah, we're just about done," Preston says. "Figured we might as well use the armor to make the lifting easier. It'll be a few days before McGill is up for walking back to Sanctuary, and if we're staying here, we wanted it livable."

"No offense man, but you don't smell so good," MacCready points out.

"Believe me, I noticed," Preston mutters. "We pulled a dead guy out of this armor an hour ago and it shows."

"I bet it's no picnic from the inside either."

Preston chuckles and shakes his head. "Worth it, though. There's a ton of usable scrap here, plus all the ammo and weapons the Gunners were carrying. We found a few fusion cores too; those are always useful."

"I'm guessing you'll be taking it all back to Sanctuary?"

"Most of it, yeah," Preston says. "Why, did you want some?"

MacCready doesn't even have to think about it. "No. Not this time. Taking down those two is all I needed."

Preston gives him a long, considering look. "You had some history with them."

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Well... as long as it _stays_ history, all right?"

MacCready nods. "Don't worry. I'm done with that part of my life."

He's not sure how much Preston has figured out, but that answer seems to satisfy him. He turns and goes back to shoving dead Gunners off the bridge. MacCready wanders over to McGill and sits down across from him, giving him a nod. McGill returns it tiredly; he's clearly in some pain but he's holding together pretty well.

Eventually Preston and Everett finish their cleanup. They leave the power armor at the far end of the overpass. The Gunners had a few water pumps down at the bottom of the main lift, and they use the water to wash off.

Jun and Marcy wander back from their walk; they're not exactly bundles of happiness, but at least they're talking. They're gathered around on the sofa and a few chairs, having breakfast, when Emma steps out of the shack. She's a mess, MacCready's undershirt spotted with blood and her hair a tangled cloud around her head, all flat on one side where she slept on it. She seems irritated and stalks across to them, then stands over MacCready with her hands on her hips, staring him down.

"What?" he asks.

"Come with me." She turns without waiting for an answer, heading back toward the little shack they slept in.

MacCready looks around at the others. Jun shrugs; Marcy ignores him. Preston snorts and shakes his head. "Don't you know?" he asks.

"No. What'd I do?"

"You left her in bed alone. She hates that."

"Oh." MacCready shifts, looking down at his boots. This is not a conversation he wants to have with Preston in front of an audience. Or ever, really. "Yeah, I'm gonna go."

"Good luck," Preston calls after him. He sounds way too amused by the whole thing. MacCready is beginning to suspect the man is not actually a saint after all.

"Look, I didn't know," MacCready says as soon as he steps into the dim shack. "I mean, you always wake up like a rabbit on jet and it's not like you gave me standing orders or something. How was I gonna know this is yet another thing that you're weird about? You need to come with an instruction manual or something."

"MacCready," she says, "shut up."

He blinks and opens his mouth, then shuts it again when she steps close. She reaches up and laces her hands behind his neck, then lifts her chin. He swallows and meets her eyes. "You're... not mad."

She grins. "No kidding." Then she pulls him close, pressing warm and solid all against his chest, hips fitting neatly against him, one long thigh sliding in between his knees, nudging them apart.

"Uh," he says. "What are you doing?"

"Not sure," she says. "Kind of making it up as I go."

"Oh."

"You were great," she murmurs, so close he can feel the whisper of her breath on his lips. "I was too out of it last night to tell you, but seriously, you were amazing. I couldn't have done this without you."

"You wouldn't have had to do it without me," he counters, not sure why he's arguing. Her leg is pressed _so close_ to where he needs it and her fingers are idly carding through the hair at the nape of his neck, tracing little lines with the nails and sending shivers down his back.

"Mmm, I would've eventually," she says. "I've got supply lines that run near here and I've already lost three provisioners to these assholes. Plus, now we have a foothold near Natick Banks. I've been wanting to comb that place for salvage for a while."

"Always thinking of the big picture, huh?"

"I want my army," she says evenly. "And you are making it more possible every day."

"Look, I..." He sighs, shifting a little, and she presses closer. He leans in and rests their heads together, then wraps his arms around her waist, tugging her into a hug. She goes easily, eagerly, and he feels the soft curve of her mouth against his throat, nuzzling up on the sensitive spot just below his ear. He muffles a sound against her hair. "I had a whole speech, you know," he says. "I was going to be all noble about evening the score. I planned it all out."

"The score?"

"Yeah, something like that. You hired me to help you, and here you are doing stuff for me instead. There was going to be some stuff about keeping it even." He slips a hand under her shirt and strokes up the bare line of her back and she catches her breath. "It sounded better in my head. Seems kinda stupid right now, though."

"There's no score," she says. "You don't owe me anything."

He doesn't think that's true, but before he can argue she turns and presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw, warm and lingering. "Tell me if it's too much," she murmurs in his ear. "I'll stop if you say so."

"What happens if I don't?"

She pauses. "I don't know. I haven't... this is new, for me. All of this. Even wanting is new, I never thought about anything like this before. But I see you, and..." She trails off, then kisses his neck, nibbling at the skin, tasting him. "Sometimes it's all I can think about. How you'd feel. What sounds you would make." She tangles one hand in his hair, pulling gently, enough to tug his head up and meet his eyes. "I look at you and all I want to do is put my hands on you and take you apart."

" _Jesus_ , Emma," he mutters. Then he kisses her, cupping her head in one hand, the other still splayed out against her back. She gasps against his mouth and he takes the invitation, licking the line of her bottom lip, drawing it in and sucking gently.

She's clumsy, inexperienced, but eager, pressing up against him. She kisses like she's starved, whimpering under her breath, clutching at him with both hands. Her thigh rubs him through his pants and he groans, hips stuttering forward. She grinds right back, tugging him closer, hands pulling at his jumpsuit, trying to find his skin.

She pulls away to draw in a ragged breath and then bites at the line of his throat, one hand going to the zipper of his jumpsuit. She shoves a hand inside, greedy, pushing at the material in the way.

"Like this," he says, then kisses her neck, tugging the loose collar of her shirt aside to reach the curve of her throat. He pulls her earlobe between his lips and flicks his tongue over it and she shudders. She's rubbing hard against his leg now and he rocks his hips, matching her rhythm, his heart pounding in his chest and sweat springing up all over his body.

He runs his fingertips up her sides, lifting the shirt, and finally gets his hands on her breasts. They're small, like the rest of her, fitting neatly in his palms. He brushes his thumbs over her nipples and she cries out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. She's shaking; he can feel her trembling and she's got her face hidden in the hollow of his neck.

MacCready puts one hand on her cheek and lifts her face, then kisses her, gentler this time. Soft and sweet, open-mouthed but chaste. Her frantic breathing starts to slow and she kisses back. Her eyes are closed and her face is flushed. He kisses her on the forehead, stroking her hair back from her face, and she makes a choked off sound that is almost a sob.

"I, um," she says, her voice small and breathless. "I was actually just going to kiss you. Might've gotten carried away a little."

"Yeah," he says. "Right there with you."

"I could tell," she says dryly. "But... thank you. For stopping."

He nods. He's still got a hand on her face and he rubs his thumb over the line of her cheekbone. She leans into the touch, smiling. "Maybe next time, we try that a little slower," he says.

She raises an eyebrow. "Next time?"

"Well... yeah. If you want."

"Oh, I want," she says, and there's something low and hungry in her voice that fills him with heat. "But doesn't it bother you? I thought... I mean, you said I had to make up my mind. To stop teasing."

"This is different," he says. "It's like... like you mean it, now."

"Yeah." She takes his hand and presses a kiss to the center of his palm. "I mean it."

~~~

Emma gets distant for a while after that. He's not really surprised. He's picked up the pattern by now. She's impulsive and blurts things out and reveals way more than she meant to, and then she pulls back, like she's reminding herself that stuff isn't allowed.

He doesn't mind so much anymore. For one thing, she's a lousy liar. She usually doesn't even try; she just refuses to answer stuff. He's pretty sure she was telling the truth about wanting him. Knowing that makes it easier to handle when she tries to put up walls again. And really, slowing down is a good idea. She's said more than once that this is new to her, and going by how fast she got overwhelmed with a little making out, he believes it. He's in no rush either; he lost Lucy more than two years ago but he still misses her so much. He's not ready for a headlong plunge into something new. Better to tread carefully.

He follows her lead; keeps things light, calls her 'boss' and follows her around like a good hired merc. But he also sneaks over the line every now and then. Tests her limits, pushes a little, just to see what'll happen.

He tries it when they're clearing out some old apartment building, shooting raiders and looting the place for scrap. They go through three floors and then she wants a quick break before they go up the next set of stairs. She pushes him against a wall and leans into him; it's one of her favorites and he's accustomed to it by now. He wraps his arms around her waist obediently and rests his cheek against her hair. She sighs, relaxing into a loose-limbed sprawl on his chest, making a pleased little hum.

Then he presses a kiss to her temple, lingering for a long moment. She twitches a little but doesn't say anything, so he does it again. Then he slips his fingertips under the hem of her shirt, just barely brushing against the small of her back. He can hear her throat click as she swallows. He traces three lazy arcs on her skin, slow and deliberate, and then pulls back and it's just a hug again, familiar territory.

Another time, they're at Tenpines Bluff, upgrading their defenses. Emma found some old missile turret schematics at the National Guard Training Yard and fell in love with them, and she's been building them all over. They spend half the first day working on the turrets and then grab a nap; as usual, they traveled at night.

They're curled together on a mattress in the corner of one of the communal sleeping rooms. It's a hot day, the air still and heavy, and MacCready can hear the buzz of the generators and the muffled, rhythmic thumping of the brahmin plodding back and forth in the field. Emma already coaxed him into taking off his armor and most of his outer layers; he went along with this willingly. He's not immune to the allure of her bare skin pressed against his, and besides, it's too hot for pants.

He's sleepy and comfortable, but not quite ready to doze off and miss this opportunity. He shifts a little, nosing at the line of her neck where it curves into her shoulder. He lifts his chin, letting the soft scrape of stubble brush over her skin. He feels her shiver and he smiles. Then he brings his lips close to the ridge of her ear and just breathes. She makes a soft sound and he can see gooseflesh prickle up the back of her neck, lifting all the little hairs.

MacCready presses his cheek against her hair, then turns so his mouth is on her shoulder. It's not a kiss, not really; only resting there, a faint warmth and the fluttering tickle of his breathing. He falls asleep like that, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He enjoys these little teases. They fill him with a kind of giddy anticipation he hasn't felt in years. Always the question of how much he can get away with, where is the line and can he push it just a little further. He takes his chances where he can get them, in stolen moments as they work their way east.

Once they finish the turrets at Tenpines, he asks where they're headed next. She's gotten better at telling him the plan, as long as he is willing to ask.

"We're making our way over to a quarry," she says. "A while back, I cleaned out a bunch of weird, fire-obsessed raiders from this old smelting factory. Saugus Ironworks. Place like that is useful; we can always use more quality metal for all sorts of things."

"So how does the quarry come into it?" he asks.

"When I was there, I read all their terminal entries." She pauses, tilting her head curiously. "By the way, is that normal human behavior? Like, why does everyone keep a diary on old computers? Was that always a thing or is it more of a post-war coping mechanism?"

He gives her a baffled stare. "Yeah, most of those words didn't make any sense."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't give me that. You're not some illiterate hired gun, I've seen you sneaking peeks at those library books I picked up."

"I might've been looking at the pictures, you don't know," he says, then shrugs. "But yeah, I learned how to read a while back." Lucy taught him. He doesn't mention that part.

"My point is, I've poked through a lot of old terminals, and it seems like most people use them as a kind of journal. Is that something people did before the war too?"

"Boss, the war was two hundred years ago. I don't know what people did then," he says. "I can tell you people these days do a lot of chems. Maybe they just write stuff down so they don't forget."

"Yeah," she says. "Maybe. Sometimes it's useful stuff. Sometimes it's just sad." A shadow passes over her face. "That reminds me, on the way there we need to stop by the Slog. I have a holotape for one of the settlers there."

"I've heard of that place," MacCready says. "All ghouls, right? Some kind of farm?"

She nods. "Yeah, it's pretty clever, actually. They converted a swimming pool into a tarberry bog. But anyway, the quarry. I was reading through the terminals at Saugus and the guy running that place mentioned sending one of his lieutenants out to the quarry to get more raw materials for the forge. If we're going to use Saugus to supply metal for the Minutemen and our settlements, we need to take that quarry. Both for the supplies, and to make sure that lieutenant doesn't show up at some point wondering where the boss went."

"Sounds reasonable," he says. "What's it called?"

"Um... dun-something? Hang on," she says, and pokes at her Pip-Boy. "Dunwich Borers. Further east, close to Salem. I've got it on my map but I haven't been there yet."

MacCready frowns; the name sounds familiar. "I'm not sure that's a good idea," he says. "I've heard some bad rumors about that place."

"Well it's probably full of raiders," she says, shrugging. "Nothing new for us. Plus, you love quarries. All those great sniper vantage points."

"Yeah, I guess," he says. "Should be fun."

~~~


	12. Going Deeper

They stop at the Slog as planned, both to drop off the holotape and to get some sleep before moving on to the quarry at nightfall. Emma goes to talk to a ghoul about his tape and MacCready pokes around, doing a little trading and charming a free lunch out of the friendly woman running the bar. (The phrase "I'm with the General" continues to be magic.)

Most of the beds are laid out in old locker rooms, but there's a newly built wooden platform on top of the old concrete structure, and the beds up there are nicer. Each one is tucked into a little alcove; it's not exactly a private room, but there is the illusion of some personal space, and they have a window with a nice view of the river behind the building. He sets up there, dropping his pack and stripping off his armor.

He's not worried that Emma will wonder where he is; she always seems able to find him. Sure enough, it's only a few minutes later that he recognizes her footsteps on the stairs. "Hey," he says, still fiddling with his bootlaces. "I got some food for us. Mirelurk stew; looks pretty good. Plus some kind of pastry thing they made with the tarberries."

She doesn't answer; he looks up and can see immediately that something is wrong. She's got an awful, stricken look on her face and her whole body is slumped, arms dangling slack at her sides. He stands and touches her shoulders, drawing her closer. "What is it?"

She shakes her head once; it is a slow, dazed movement. Her arms slip around his waist automatically and she leans in. She takes a deep breath. "That was just... harder than I thought it would be."

"Why? What happened?" He presses a kiss to her hair; not trying to push boundaries this time, but it's habit at this point to touch her.

"It was sad, that's all," she says. "Have you ever heard of Arlen Glass?"

"No, who's that? Was that the ghoul you were talking to?"

She nods. "He's pre-war. Used to be a toymaker. I found all kinds of records at the old Atomatoys Corporate HQ downtown. Not far from Goodneighbor. He was one of the lead designers there. Came up with those Giddyup Buttercup horses you still find parts for sometimes."

"Oh yeah, I've seen those," he says. "Princess would've loved them."

"Who's... never mind," she says. "He actually got fired from the company just a few days before the bombs hit. See, the original founder retired, passed the company president position to his son. The son didn't really care about making toys; he wanted to make money. He struck a deal with the military to use the toy factory to make munitions. Land mines."

MacCready gives a low whistle. "Yeah, that's fu... messed up."

"Arlen was furious. He threw a fit, got kicked out of a board meeting, and escorted off the premises by security. Several times." She snorts. "Man was persistent, and he cared deeply about children. I found a message he left for the son, talking about how toys give children hope for the future. How it lets them imagine the possibility of a better life, one without war."

MacCready doesn't answer this; he always feels the ghost of that hope when he goes through an abandoned nursery or sees a battered teddy bear some long-ago child left behind. Maybe it's just because he's a father, but it always gets him a little.

"The irony is," Emma continues, "Arlen had a child of his own. A little girl, Marlene. I found his old office, and his notes. Reminders to himself to get something for her seventh birthday. Notes about how he missed important events in her life because he was so busy with his job. And I found that tape; it's a recording that his wife and Marlene made together, for him."

"Oh," MacCready says quietly. "I'm guessing they..."

"Yeah," she says. "Didn't make it. When he played that tape, and he heard their voices again after all these years..." She makes a small, choked off sound and presses closer. "He was grateful that I brought it to him, but it also hurt him so much. I could see it. I can't help wondering if he would've been better off without it."

"No," he replies immediately. "No, you did the right thing. I've... well, I've lost people too. And I don't have much to remember them by. I would love to have something more. Anything. What you gave him was precious. Yeah, it hurt, it's gonna hurt. But it's good, too."

She's quiet for a while, thoughful, He strokes a hand up and down her back and waits. "Yeah," she says, "I think you're right. Is... is it okay if I ask who you lost?"

For a moment, it's all right there on the tip of his tongue, begging to be told. Losing Lucy to those ferals, Duncan getting sick, needing help to get the cure. She cares about him; she's said as much more than once and she meant it. She'd help if he asked. And she's got resources and skills; with her at his side, they could pull it off, he's sure of it.

And yet. He's been screwed over and backstabbed so many times in his life. She's got her own agenda, her own reasons for doing the stuff she does, and he doesn't know all of it. He's only got one shot to get that cure and as close as they've become, she's still got so many secrets. What if she decides she needs it more?

So he shakes his head. "I'm not... not ready to talk about that."

"Okay," she says. "I understand."

And that's the thing - he thinks she does understand. Being unable to trust, needing to keep some secrets; he thinks she understands those things very well. "Look," he blurts out, "I know I tend to be a pain in the a... I mean, I know i tend to be arrogant sometimes, and act like I'm the tough loner type, but that's not true. Being alone scares the heck out of me. Traveling with you has made me realize how much I missed having someone I could depend on. I know things between us are... complicated, sometimes. And maybe we both still have some stuff to work through. But you know this is more than just a job for me, right?"

She leans up and kisses him on the cheek. "Yeah," she says. "I know that. When you're ready to tell me, I'll be here."

~~~

They set out at dusk. When she wants to move with a purpose she's quick, and the quarry isn't that far from the Slog. They're traveling light; she's got a personal locker at most of her settlements and they left a lot of their extra supplies behind. She expects the place to be big and full of useful loot; the plan is to walk out with as much as they can carry.

It's a clear night, cool and crisp, with only a small crescent moon overhead. The faint breeze and low, silvery light are perfect for shooting. MacCready finds himself grinning in anticipation. She was right - he does like quarries. With their high quality scopes and suppressors, he expects to pick off most of the raiders before they even know he's there.

He sees the glow of the place as they approach; it's full of construction lights. Beside him, Emma drops into a crouch and slows. He follows suit, and they sidle up to a block of roughly cut stone near the lip of the main pit. There's a shack on the far edge and he can see the silhouette of a woman in spiky raider armor leaning on the railing, smoking. He peers through his recon scope, marking the target, but doesn't shoot. Emma always likes to plan first on the big jobs.

MacCready glances over at her, waiting, but she's silent. There's a worried furrow between her eyebrows and her gaze is distant. He leans closer, brushing their shoulders together. "Boss?"

She jumps a little and refocuses. She takes a long, careful look into the quarry pit, then holds out her hand. He takes it automatically. She frowns, biting her lip. "Weird," she murmurs.

"What?"

"I don't know." She shakes her head. "There are a lot of them, maybe that's it."

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"I'm having some trouble picking them up. Might just be interference; lot of ore in all this rock. Some radioactive material, too. Plus, there's a ton of them."

"That going to be a problem?"

She hesitates for a long moment. "No... no, it's fine. This place just feels a little off, that's all. It'll get easier once we've taken some of them out."

He doesn't like it; she very rarely looks this uncertain. "Maybe we ought to get some back up. We're not that far from a couple of your settlements, right? You could radio for help, get some Minutemen in here. I know it's just raiders, but like you said, there's a lot of them and I see at least two in power armor."

She's already shaking her head. "No, this calls for stealth and patience, not a frontal assault. Let's find some good cover and start picking targets."

They pull back and swing around, keeping low and quiet. MacCready climbs up on top of a few blocks of stone, then creeps forward on his belly until he's overlooking the edge. It's a good spot; plenty of thick stone all around offering cover, and a wide view of the quarry, giving him clean sightlines to most of the raiders and turrets. The only thing it lacks is protection from the back, but an enemy would have to climb out of the quarry and go around him to get there.

Emma settles beside him, carefully mimicking his pose with her own rifle. "Guess it's time to see if all those lessons paid off," she whispers.

He nods. "Where do you want to start?"

She sweeps back and forth a few times with her scope. "The one by the guard shack. She's on our level and could reach us first. Plus, she's far enough from the others that I think they won't notice if she goes down quiet."

MacCready lines up a shot, but pauses when Emma touches his shoulder. "Let me," she says. "I won't get better if I don't take shots."

"Usually better to practice on stuff that won't shoot back," he says, but he lowers his weapon obediently.

"Can't practice forever." She takes a careful breath, then exhales slowly. He rests a hand in the small of her back, rubbing a little, and feels her relax. She squeezes off the shot and the raider drops with a muffled thump.

"Okay, that looked like it hurt," he says, and she grins.

"Only for a second," she says. "Now, who's next?"

"Watch this." He sights down his scope at the guy in power armor on one of the lower tiers of the quarry. He's walking with two others, and as he turns a corner, his back is to them. It's a difficult shot; the man is moving and the fusion core is a small point on his back, but if he can pull it off, it'll be a hell of a show. He waits, breathing evenly, blanking his mind and allowing the cool quiet to wash over him. He can feel it line up as the man stops for a moment; it comes together with a click and he pulls the trigger on instinct.

It's a clean shot; the fusion core immediately lights up, humming bright red as it reaches a critical state. The raiders shout in alarm and the man tries to scramble out of his armor; the other two try to bolt away but they're on one of the thin ledges wrapping around the quarry and there's not a lot of room to move. The explosion is deafening, echoing off the stone walls and scattering little chips of rock everywhere. All three are blown off the ledge and they land in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

The place is a swarm after that, like kicking an anthill. Raiders boil out of every hole and shack, shouting in alarm; the turrets light up and sweep back and forth, searching. Emma starts shooting, taking easy body shots, going for the knees when she can. He picks off the ones that she leaves behind. He's careful to vary his aim, keeping them guessing. The turrets start to zero in on them and he hears the sharp ping of bullets ricocheting off the stone around them. He shoots back, taking out two of them in bright flashes of fire.

They're devastatingly effective. Emma has learned fast and she's still so quick, shooting two or three times to his one. She's not as accurate as he is but she pours out an overwhelming amount of damage. She leaves raiders on the ground everywhere, wounded and screaming, struggling to heal themselves. He follows along after her, finishing them off with more precise shots; it's easy when they're not moving.

By the time the raiders pin down their location, there's only five of them left. Emma rolls, dropping her rifle and pulling her revolver. The sharp report of the .44 is loud and close as she pummels the first two in the chest. MacCready scrambles over the other side of their cover. She gave him a combat shotgun a while back; he doesn't like it nearly as much as the rifle but he has to admit, it's handy in a pinch. It kicks in his hands, the recoil thudding against his chest as he mows down two of the raiders. The last one gets off a lucky shot, getting him just above the knee, and his leg buckles. He goes down with a sharp cry of pain and grabs for the stimpak clipped to his belt.

Emma makes a furious noise and swings her arm, elbowing the raider in the face, shoving him back toward the edge of the quarry. She follows it with a point blank shot to his leg, pulverizing his knee. The man screams and crumples to the ground. She kicks him twice in the gut, knocking the air out of him, then finishes it with a shot to the back of the head. MacCready watches, raising his eyebrows. It's certainly not the first time he's seen her kill, but she doesn't usually draw it out that long.

She crouches beside him, digging in her pocket for a stimpak. "It's okay," he says. "Already used one. I don't think he hit the bone; bullet went clean through."

"You sure?" she asks, her hands prodding gently around the wound. "There's a lot of blood."

"Well yeah, gunshot wounds bleed," he says. "It's fine. I just need to sit for a minute."

She nods and sits beside him, then tugs him over, guiding him to lean against her. She touches his throat, checking his pulse, then strokes her knuckles over his cheek. He catches her hand and turns it, then presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist. She looks at him; his eyes are still a little dazzled from all the muzzle flashes and explosions, and he can barely make out her expression. Her eyes are wide and dark.

"We get them all?" he asks.

"I think so." She looks around, one hand absently sifting through the hair at the nape of his neck. "The ones on the outside, anyway."

He closes his eyes and lets himself rest a little heavier on her shoulder. She takes the weight without comment. His leg throbs with a dull ache and his ears are still ringing with the echoes of gunfire. It's a strange time to feel safe, but he does. He breathes slow and lets the stimpak do its work. She's got his back.

MacCready gives himself a few minutes, then straightens again, shaking it off. He rolls carefully to his feet, testing his leg. Emma stands beside him, one hand cupped under his elbow, steadying him. "Okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. Good as new." It's mostly true; he's been shot enough times to know the difference between a serious injury and a minor flesh wound. It aches, but he can handle it.

She squeezes his hand, then lets him go. They make their way methodically to the bottom of the quarry, searching the bodies for ammo and stimpaks as they go. It's a familiar routine by this point and they're quick about it. As they make their way across the lowest level, they pass several cages, hanging by a chain from old construction equipment. The remains of a fire still smolders beneath them, and he can see charred bones. He grits his teeth and keeps walking. Emma keeps her focus straight ahead, face blank.

They go into a narrow tunnel, sheer rock walls close on either side. There's a door at the end. Emma lays her hand against it, then yanks it back with a sharp indrawn breath.

"What?" he asks.

She shakes her head and takes a step back. "I don't know. There's something bad here."

He looks at the door; it seems perfectly ordinary to him. "So... do you not want to go in?"

She's quiet for a long moment, then lifts her chin; it's a stubborn gesture he's seen more than once. "It's fine. We're doing this. I'm probably just overthinking it because I don't like being underground."

"Oh." He doesn't really understand this one; he actually finds a rocky ceiling over his head rather comforting. She's never shown any signs of being claustrophobic before, but then again, this is their first cave. "Boss, we don't have to..."

"We're going," she says firmly. "Come on." She opens the door before he can argue; he sees only darkness inside. She crouches, draws her weapon, and goes in. He follows; the door swings shut behind them, closing them in.

It's quiet inside. It feels immediately familiar to MacCready; the stillness of the earth around them, stone on all sides. The air has a musty quality, damp and cold. There is faint artificial light ahead and a rusted metal catwalk at their feet. Emma stops just inside, then turns, reaching for him.

He takes her by the shoulders and draws her in; she's tense, tugging fretfully at the armor on his chest. "Are you sure about this?" he asks quietly. "If you already hate it this much, going deeper is not going to help."

"I can do it," she insists. "There's just something here that's bothering me. Not just the cave; I'm usually okay with those. I don't love them, but I'm okay. This is something more."

He says nothing, just rubs her back and waits. She grows calm after a minute, takes a deep breath, and pulls away. "Okay," she says. "I'll get used to it. It's just... background noise. I'll be alright."

He's not sure who she's trying to convince. She takes point, moving along the catwalk with careful, soft steps. As she walks, she switches weapons, holstering the revolver and pulling out her favorite silenced 10mm. Her rifle is still strapped across her back. MacCready keeps his rifle out; it's not great in such tight spaces but it has a suppressor and it's clear she wants to do this with stealth.

They come around a corner and see a raider standing on the catwalk ahead of them; Emma takes her out with two quick shots in the back. She drops easily. They move on, pausing only to check the body for supplies. Emma is moving with more confidence; either she's shaken off whatever it was, or she's managing to ignore it.

Ahead of them, the cave opens out and there are construction lights everywhere. It's blindingly bright after the dark entrance and MacCready squints. Emma approaches a terminal. He's used to her habit of poking through terminals and he moves automatically to cover her as she starts tapping buttons. There's another raider across the room; he drops the man with a clean headshot. Emma doesn't even look up.

"Hmm," she says. "Okay, this is station one. Looks like there are at least four stations. This place might be bigger than I thought."

"Anything useful?"

"Not sure. The usual corporate crap and some office politics. There's a message here about an emergency meeting at station four, wherever that is. Deeper in, I guess. At least I can disable some of the turrets from here."

He nods and follows as she moves forward. The path takes them down, a narrow cut in solid rock. Mist swirls around their ankles. He has the sense of immese weight all around them, pressing down. He eyes the line of her shoulders; she's whipcord tense, but she seems okay.  
The construction lights are irritating, creating pockets of brightness that leave him blinking and struggling through the next pool of dark. Up ahead, the path widens again and he sees ancient orange construction equipment, dusty and still. There's another terminal stuck to a metal post, with a square "2" sign above it.

"Station two already," he murmurs. "Making good progress."

She doesn't answer. There's a raider just above the terminal, on some catwalk stairs, and Emma shoots him. She hits him six times in the chest; at least three more than she really needed. MacCready bites his tongue. This does not seem like the time to chide her about wasting ammo.

A bullet scrapes across the rock wall to his right and he turns, lifting his rifle. A woman in spike armor pops up across the room and he hits her in the shoulder, then the gut. She goes down. Emma is already drawing a bead on the third raider. She finishes that one with four shots, then reloads. MacCready can hear the rattle of the clip against the pistol; her hands are trembling.

He decides not to mention it. She goes to the terminal while he sweeps the room for survivors. By the time he's done, she's moving ahead again. He falls into place behind her.   
They take out two more raiders easily. MacCready can see the path open up ahead; the white rock walls fall away into darkness. There's a battered old crane and another terminal with a man standing beside it wearing a hard hat. MacCready shoots him in the back. Emma moves past him and goes to the railing, but doesn't lean on it. He's glad of her caution when he peers over; it's a sheer drop. Mist fills the bottom of the pit, tinted dull orange in the glow of the construction lights. A rickety staircase spirals around the edges.

"Don't slip," he says.

Emma snorts and taps on the terminal. "More of the same," she says. "Everyone getting called to station four. Oh, and complaining about the unsafe railings. Watch your step."

"No kidding," he replies. "Anyone waiting for us down there?"

She stares into the pit. He comes up behind her and puts his arms around her waist. She leans into him immediately; he can feel the fine tremor running through her. "I'm okay," she says before he can ask. "And yeah, there's at least three of them at the bottom. Keep as quiet as you can on the stairs. I can't see them well enough to shoot from here, but I'll take them as soon as we're close enough."

He presses a kiss to her hair before he lets her go. She gives him a quick, unreadable glance, then starts down the stairs.

There's a stone landing at each corner; on the second one, she pauses, squinting down. MacCready can make out the vague shape of more construction equipment at the bottom, and some light that seems to be moving - maybe a raider with a headlamp. Emma lifts her pistol and he puts a hand on her shoulder; she always wants contact when she's using her vision trick.

Her first shot hits home; he hears someone cry out and hit the ground. Shouts rise up from the pit. She swivels and shoots again. The bullet clangs on the metal housing of the equipment. Clattering footsteps hit the bottom of the stairs and she shifts her aim, firing again. He hears a woman scream, high and wavering, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Emma fires twice more and the scream cuts off.

"One more," she murmurs. "Taking cover; I can't get her from here."

They creep forward. A spray of bullets hits the wall behind them, throwing dust into the air. More gunfire rattles against the stairs. They flatten themselves against the wall and hurry. Another burst of shots whizzes past them; MacCready can feel the stir in the air as one barely misses his shoulder. Emma makes a sharp sound and flinches.

He grabs her around the waist when she sways and carries her the last couple steps to the stone landing. "Where are you hit?" he whispers, easing her to the ground.

"Ribs," she says, hissing the word out between clenched teeth. More bullets hit the wall over their heads. MacCready pulls a frag grenade and hurls it in the general direction of the shooter. There's a bright flash and a thundering bang, then muffled cursing. Hurt, but not dead; it'll only buy them a minute.

Emma's already got a stimpak out and she injects it in her side. She's breathing hard, jaw clenched against the pain. He crouches over her, weapon up, and she gives him a little push. "Go," she says. "I'm okay. Get her."

He switches to the shotgun and moves quickly down the last flight of stairs. The rusted hulk of an old metal structure emerges from the mist first, and then he sees movement at the base. He shoots blindly and his lips draw back in a toothy smile when he hears a shout of pain. MacCready presses the advantage, firing again, coming around the corner fast and laying down bullets. He sees the woman on the ground try to raise her machine gun but he blasts her before she can pull the trigger. She goes limp and he fires one more burst, just to be sure.

Then he turns and pounds back up the stairs. Emma is slumped against the wall, hand pressed to her side. He slides down beside her and gets an arm around her shoulders, then pulls her in against his chest.

"It's not bad," she says. "Just a lucky shot, right through the gap in my armor."

He presses careful fingertips around the bloody tear in her jumpsuit. "You need another stim?"

"Nah." She's already pulling herself to her feet. "Come on. I want to finish this place."

She sways when she's all the way up and he grabs her shoulders, but she doesn't fall. They descend to the bottom together. She makes a careful circle around the thing in the center of the room; it's roughly ball-shaped, but big enough for at least two people to fit inside. It's got windows spaced at regular intervals and has several hoses poking out from the top.

"What is that thing?" MacCready asks, thumping it with one fist. It makes a hollow, resonant _bong_ , like an old bell.

"It looks kind of like a submersible," she says. "I wonder if there's water down here somewhere."

MacCready wrinkles his nose. He hates getting wet.

She's found another terminal and is tapping away at it. "Hey, one of these raiders must have been Bedlam."

"Bedlam?" he echoes. "Seriously? She actually called herself that?"

"Raiders," Emma says with a shrug. "But she was the one mentioned in the terminal at Saugus. The lieutenant who was sent to check up on this. Says here she found their men slacking off, whining about something deeper in the cave. And there's one more entry..." She trails off, hands going still on the keyboard.

"What?" MacCready asks, coming up behind her.

She steps back and gestures wordlessly to the screen. MacCready squints at it; the whole screen is filled with the same words, over and over. _I'm safe in the light. I'm safe in the light. I'm safe in the light._

"Oh," he says. "Yeah, that's not creepy at all."

Emma doesn't say anything. She's staring across the room at a red wooden door with two thick chains crossed against it, holding it shut.

"Uh, maybe we should leave that door alone," he says. "We got the person we came for, right? Maybe we _don't_ explore the spooky tunnel, how does that sound?"

She shakes her head slowly. "There's something bad in there. I can feel it. And if we leave it there, if we leave it alive, then it's a danger to any people I send down here later."

"Right, okay, that's true," he says. "But we've killed at least thirty raiders tonight, boss. Some of them were pretty tough. And whatever is behind that door, they apparently couldn't handle it. What if we _can't_ kill it?"

She doesn't answer. She's drifting across the room, one hand outstretched. She rests her fingertips against the door, then reaches for the chain, unhooking it. He darts over and grabs her wrist before she can release the second one. "Boss?" he asks, shaking her a little. "You with me?"

Her head turns slowly, and she looks right through him for a moment before blinking and focusing. "What?"

He swallows hard. "Okay, look at me. See my serious face? This is not okay. You are not okay, you've been weird about this place ever since we came in."

"It's going to be alright," she says. "I can hear him calling me."

She tugs her wrist away and he grabs it again, holding on tight. " _Emma_. Listen to me. Please."

She frowns and tries to pull back. "MacCready?"

He drags her away from the door and across the room, then pushes her against the wall. He's as gentle as he can be, mindful that she's still got a half-healed bullet wound in her side, but he doesn't let her go. "Right here," he says. "Look at me, right here, come on." He gets one hand on her face, cupping her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

Her eyes are still cloudy, dreamy, but then she draws in a sharp breath and shakes it off. "What... wait, what happened?"

He sags a little, relieved. "There you are."

"What's going on?" she asks. "You're scared."

He laughs, sharp and humorless. "We need to get out of here."

"No." She's scowling, twisting in his grasp. "I'm alright now. I can handle it."

"God, you're stubborn," he says. "Forget it. We're leaving."

Her eyes narrow and she folds her arms, drawing herself up. His stomach sinks - that was the wrong approach. Emma _hates_ being told what to do. She'll plow ahead just because he told her not to.

"Really," she says, sharp and cold. "Are we. Is that so. You've decided, have you?"

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "No, I'm... look, you were right. I'm scared. You are scaring me. Please, _please_ can we go?"

She softens, her stance unwinding a little. She touches his face, her thumb pressing where he's bitten his lip. "I hear you," she says. "And for what it's worth, I don't want to go in there either. I can feel... something. And I don't like it. But we've come this far, and we need this place. I need this place. I'm not quitting now."

He stares at her for a long moment, then sighs and releases her shoulders. "Okay. Of course you're not. Of course you want to do this crazy, stupid, _suicidal_ thing. Fine. I'm going with you."

She smiles. "Just stay close. It's better when you're close."

MacCready follows her back to the door; she takes off the last chain and they go through together.

At first, it's just more narrow, misty tunnels. He can see a few ghouls sprawled out on the floor. "Ferals," she murmurs to him. "A lot of them."

"Great," he says. _Not this time_ , he thinks. He holds his weapon a little tighter.

A tremor shifts the earth around them in a low, ominous rumble. Emma shudders and presses against his side. He can hear the mindless moans of feral ghouls, echoing off the stone ahead.   
The first one comes careening toward them, growling and spitting. Emma hits it hard; she's got the .44 out. The noise brings the rest of them running. MacCready swallows back panic and shoots again and again, mowing them down. The narrow tunnel acts as a bottleneck and soon becomes a shooting gallery. Claws drag at his armor and bite into his side; he can feel the burn of radiation and the warm drip of blood.

Emma shouts and shoves one of them off her, then shoots it in the head. Tattered flesh sprays out and it falls. She twists as another grabs at her and he yanks it away, kicking it hard then shooting until it stays down. It's intense, but it's over quickly and they're left standing, panting for breath and surrounded by a mess of dead ferals.

MacCready grabs a stimpak and injects half of it, then passes the rest to Emma. She takes it and uses it on her thigh, where a ghoul managed to claw a long gouge. "Okay?" he asks.

"Okay." She reloads and leans close to him again. They move through the tunnel shoulder to shoulder.

Up around the corner there's another pocket of ferals, including a glowing one that hurtles toward them, screaming. Emma shoots her revolver dry, then pulls out her knife and rips through the last of them. MacCready backs her up with the shotgun, careful to check his fire. This batch is easier but nausea roils in his stomach and his skin feels hot. The geiger on Emma's Pip-Boy chatters at them.

"We're taking too many rads," he says.

"Yeah, come on." She tugs him toward another door, reloading as she goes. She touches the door, then gives a low moan and sways. He catches her around the waist, and then his vision blanks for a moment, going white.

When it comes back, he sees men ahead of them in hardhats, sitting on a forklift that looks shiny and clean. They're holding clipboards, talking, seemingly unconcerned. Emma is mumbling nonsense beside him, hands cluching at his shirt; her eyes have rolled up into her head and she's shaking.

Then there's another flash of white and the men are gone; instead there's only an empty, dusty tunnel.

Emma draws a sharp breath and straightens. "What the _actual_ fuck," she mutters. "Did you see that?"

"I... I saw _something_ ," he replies. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she says. "I'm okay. I've got this. What did you see?"

"I'm not sure. Guys on a forklift. But... not raiders. Not even wastelanders. Too clean."

She nods. "That's... not what I saw. But we'll go with that."

"What did you see?"

She shudders. "Let's just keep going. Let's finish it."

They advance into the tunnel; three steps in, the circuit breaker flips and the lights all go off. MacCready feels his skin crawling. Emma takes his hand.

"Have I mentioned I don't like this?" he asks.

"Once or twice."

There are more ghouls, because _of course_ there are more. They're tough, taking a lot of shots to go down, but at least they tend to come only one or two at a time. It's the swarms that really bother MacCready; he does better with single targets. The thought of being surrounded by them, dragged to the ground and torn to pieces... he shoves it away. He can't let himself think about that. Certainly not now.

The ground rumbles beneath them every so often as they advance through the tunnel. He casts an uneasy glance up at the walls; they seem solid. He just hopes they hold. They take out the next pocket of ferals and then Emma turns to him, pressing close. She's trembling badly, her breathing coming in sharp, helpless gasps.

"Okay, easy," he murmurs. He wraps an arm around her, the other still holding his weapon. He backs up until he's against the wall, tucked into a corner where nothing can sneak up on them. Emma goes with him, pressing her face into the hollow of his neck.

"I can feel it," she says. "We're close. It's so dark."

He's not sure what that means. He rubs his cheek against her hair, feeling the warm weight of her, the way her heart pounds and her hands shake. She's rattled by whatever is in this place and yeah, he's rattled too, but he can do this. A quick contact break in the middle of a heavy combat mission is familiar territory, and it's comforting. They're alive and they're together. As far as he's concerned, that's enough.

There's another of those white flashes while they're standing there; it's too fast for MacCready to see much of anything this time. He gets a fleeting impression of the same tunnel they're in, but cleaner, brighter. Then it's gone. Emma flinches and groans low in her throat.

"Hang in there," he says. "I got you, just hold on."

She nods. Her breathing is starting to slow; she's growing calmer. He gets a hand under her shirt at the small of her back and spreads his fingers wide, touching as much of her skin as he can reach. She sighs; he can feel the curve of her smile against his neck.

"Okay," she says, pulling back. "Better. Come on."

There are three more ferals around the next corner, but they make quick work of them. "Hey," he says, pointing. "Look, station four."

They check it out; Emma pokes at the terminal and he spots a little Vault-Tec bobblehead. She likes those; he grabs it and sticks it in his pack. He'll surprise her with it later, when they make it out. "Hmm," she says. "The company was up to something. They knew there was weird shit down here."

"Were there any pre-war companies that weren't totally evil?" he asks. "Cause I haven't found any."

"They were excavating something," she says. "It's not far."

They stick close together; Emma seems a little more stable since that last break, but he's not taking any chances. It turns out to be a good thing because there's another flash and she keels over. He catches her just in time to keep her from banging her head on the stone floor. The light washes over him and he sees flickering flames; tiny candles, all in rows. People kneeling. An altar, and a low hum, a barely audible chant in some language he doesn't know.

Then it's gone and he hears the growl of ferals. Emma is still slumped on the ground, mumbling something guttural and incoherent. He stands in front of her and opens fire. Five of them come at him, but the narrow tunnel means they can't get behind him. Ferals have no self-preservation; they don't take cover and they don't slow down. He sweeps their legs, knocking down three. The other two keep coming and he shoots them again and again; he can feel himself shouting but he doesn't know what he's saying. All he knows is they can't have her. Not this time.

His hands move on auto-pilot; aim, fire, fire again. He shoots until he hears the click of an empty clip and he scoops up Emma's revolver, taking it from her limp fingers. He shoots the ones on the ground as they drag themselves closer. The tunnel is full of noise and dust and the stink of rotting flesh. He's bleeding from a dozen places, scratches all up his legs and he fires the gun dry, then swings it, bashing in the head of the last ghoul.

MacCready totters, his head spinning, the crackle of radiation sizzling on his skin and making him dizzy. He slides down the wall and huddles next to her, reloading as fast as he can. His fingers are trembling and he keeps dropping bullets. He keeps looking up, expecting the next one to come hurtling at him while he's down, to pin him to the ground, to bite and tear at him. To eat him alive.

He's aware of his breath rasping in his ears, his head pounding, heart lurching in his chest at a panicked gallop. Everything hurts, but it's distant, it doesn't matter. He can't get his hands to work. They're slippery with blood and bullets slide through his fingers and go pinging to the floor, rolling away and he can't see, his vision going gray.

"Shhh, it's okay, easy," he hears. "You got them all, shhh, come on, let the gun go, it's okay."

Something is tugging at his hands, gently pulling his fingers apart. He struggles, but he's got no strength left. He curls, bringing his hands up to his head, pulling himself as tight as he can. They'll go for the soft parts first, he knows. They'll eat his throat, his belly. His face.

He hears a hiss and feels a faint jab in his side; he flinches and tries to squirm away.

"It's okay," someone says. "Just a stimpak, easy now, breathe for me, nice and slow."

There's a warm hand on the back of his neck, stroking his hair. Some of the dizziness fades; he feels cold. He shivers.

Warmth wraps around him; he feels hands tugging at him, encouraging him to unwind from the tight ball he's tucked himself into. There's a soft murmuring in his ear and a steady weight at his back, pressed against him.

He comes back to himself a little at a time. At some point there's another stimpak; the pain and nausea fade and he starts to feel like he might be able to sit up without falling over. He doesn't try just yet. He's pressed into a small space, the wall at his back and Emma stretched against his chest, curled around him. He feels surrounded and held and for now, he just wants to sink into that.

Emma touches his face, smoothing his hair back. He's covered in blood and cold sweat, and probably bits of ghoul, but she doesn't seem to mind. She presses soft kisses to his cheeks and the line of his jaw; it's soothing. An act of comfort, nothing more, and he leans into each one. He makes a sound low in his throat and opens his eyes.

"Hey," she says, regarding him solemnly.

"Hey." His voice comes out in a croak; his throat is sore. "Sorry."

"For what?" she asks. "Killing a bunch of ghouls and saving my life?"

"Um, mostly the part where I completely freaked out after that," he says.

"Ah," she says. "I've seen how you get when we fight ferals. But you just saved us both, and you've been letting me lean on you through this whole awful place. I'm not going to judge you for one little panic attack, especially since I was basically useless on the floor the whole time."

He nods and closes his eyes again, pulling her in. "They're gone, right?" he asks. "We're okay here?"

"We're okay," she says. "A lot of what was bad in this place went with them. I think those were some of the original guys from the terminals. The ones working for the mining company back before the war."

"Hmm." He takes careful breaths; every time he inhales, he can feel the press of the wall at his back and the warm weight of her all along his chest. The last skitters of fear start to let go; it feels like claws unhooking from his mind, one by one.

"They dug up something and it changed them," she says. "Without them, I don't think it has much power left. I can still feel it, but it's very old. Faded. We can bury it here."

"Okay." He can feel exhaustion starting to creep in as the adrenaline fades; if he doesn't get up soon, he's going to crash. He pushes himself away from the wall and she moves with him, rolling to her feet. She reaches a hand down for him and he takes it, letting her pull him up. A wave of dizziness washes over him and he leans on her shoulder; she holds him steady.

"You alright?" he asks. "Did any of them get you?"

"I'm good," she says. "How about you?"

"Tired. But let's get this done. I definitely don't want to sleep here."

She nods and leads him onward. The final chamber seems vaguely familiar; he thinks its the same room he saw before, with the candlelight and the altar, but it's wrecked now. In the middle there is only a deep, narrow pool of water. The room is dim; the water looks black. There's no way of knowing how deep it is.

"No way," he says immediately. "Seriously, absolutely not. If you jump in that hole I will... I don't even know, but please don't."

She laughs. "Are you kidding? I'm not going in there. I can't even swim."

"What? Really?"

"Really," she says. "Long story. But I never learned. This doesn't seem like a great time to start."

He hesitates. "Then... are you going to make me do it?"

She gives him an incredulous look. "What? How, by holding a gun to your head and making you jump in? Of course not."

"Oh," he says. "Good."

"Jesus, who did you work for before me?" she asks. "I mean, I guess the Gunners, but wow. Were they just all complete assholes or something? What did they make you do?"

He shakes his head. "Never mind." He's not going to discuss the Gunner "intiation" process with her right now. Or ever, if he can help it. "So what do we do?"

She holds her hands out over the water, looking down into it. He gets a hold of the back of her belt, keeping her anchored. Just in case. She doesn't notice. She seems to be listening to something, head cocked to one side, fingers stretched wide. After a long moment, she pulls back.

"It's in there, whatever it is. I say we just leave it. Go back the way we came and seal off that door. Let it sleep. Sound good?"

"Works for me," MacCready says. "I like the part about us leaving. That's my favorite."

She gives him a tired smile. "Yeah. Come on."

The way out is a lot easier than the way in. He doesn't have her extra senses, or whatever it is, but even he can feel the difference. The air is different; lighter, cleaner. The walls don't feel as heavy and close around them. It's quiet, but not the same thick, oppressive silence as before. Even the occasional rumbles and shifts in the earth have stopped. Whatever those old ghouls had awoken, killing them seems to have done the trick.

They put the chain back up across the door, and Emma hangs a quick sign over top of it:  _Keep out. Bad air._

"We'll get them to brick it up later," she tells him as they climb the stairs. "I'll make sure to send a couple guys with the sense to follow orders and not go poking around."

They're tired enough that they don't even bother looting the place. It's going to be Minutemen territory soon anyway. MacCready isn't interested in lining his pockets; mostly he just wants to get out of this hole. He wants to feel fresh air on his face and see the sky. And he usually _likes_ caves - he knows Emma's got to be even more eager to escape. Indeed, by the time they pass station one she's almost running.

She pushes through the door at the end of the tunnel and they burst out into the wide open quarry. It's morning; the sunlight hurts his eyes after so long underground. He turns his face up into it, soaking up the warmth on his skin. Beside him, Emma heaves a deep sigh. He looks at her, taking in the sight of her in the daylight; she's a mess of dirt and torn clothes and spatters of glowing green blood. Her hair is tangled and greasy and she's got a smear of something black and gritty across one cheek. And she's beautiful.

She turns and catches him looking. A slow smile spreads across her face. "Hey," she says softly.

"Hey." He takes a step forward, then another. She holds still, waiting for him. He touches her face and she leans her cheek into his palm. She tilts her chin up, expectant.

The kiss is slower this time. Not the frantic, impulsive embrace they shared in the Gunner base weeks ago; this is something warm and sweet. He runs the tip of his tongue along her bottom lip and she inhales, then opens her mouth, inviting him in. It's slow and sleepy, the spark of contact tempered by how tired they both are. This feels like relief - we're not dead, we're okay, we made it out.

He stands in the sunshine kissing her until a warm throb of arousal curls in his belly and she starts making soft sounds with every touch, pressing closer to him, humming in pleasure. Then he pulls back, nuzzling the line of her throat before stepping away completely. She opens her eyes slowly; her lips are slick and pink and her eyes are dark.

"Wow," she says.

He grins - okay, maybe a little smug. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. That's totally the new thing we do after completing a mission," she says. "Way better than a drink and a nap."

"I could use both of those about now, though," he says.

"God, yes," she says. "Let's get out of here."

~~~


	13. New Skills

After Dunwich, they spend three days at the Slog. For MacCready, that's mostly about resting and healing up. His leg still aches from the gunshot and he's got dozens of gouges and bites from the ferals. They both took a heavy load of rads and they spend a few hours on a steady drip of Radaway.

Emma bounces back fast, as usual, and by the second day she's writing letters. Her radio system is spotty, especially this far north, and she doesn't trust it for important instructions. She writes everything down, sending notes to Preston, to the Castle, to Finch Farm and several other settlements, telling them exactly what to do with Saugus and Dunwich.

She pulls a couple crates over to sit by him so she can talk to him while she writes. She's not exactly hovering at his bedside, watching over him, but neither does she leave him alone for very long. He knows his body needs rest but lying in bed is boring, so he's grateful for the company.

"I want to start with sheet metal," she says, chewing absently on the end of her pencil. "The patchwork scraps we've got now don't make very good roofing material. A lot of my settlers are getting by with leaky shacks, and nobody likes that. Some quality material will go a long way toward weatherproofing."

"You can probably get them better weapons, too," he points out. "Most of them are using pipe rifles. They're easy to come by, and the ammo is cheap, but they aren't that great in a fight."

She nods, flashing him a quick smile. "Yeah, good idea. We can use it for all sorts of things - turrets, generators, even better fences and barricades. My guys scrap every bit of metal they can haul back to their main settlements, but there's only so much to go around. A reliable source is going to make a big difference."

MacCready leans back, lacing his hands behind his head and listening to the faint scritch of her pencil. It's raining out; he can hear it drumming on the steel roof. He drifts in and out for a while. She seems happy, pleased with what they've accomplished and what it's going to do for her Minutemen. He likes making her happy.

When he opens his eyes again, the quality of the light has changed and she's got a stack of letters, neatly wrapped and labeled. He's seen her do this before; they'll go out on her provisioner network.

"Hey," she says, perching on the bed beside him. "It quit raining, so I'm going to go work on the generator a little. Wiseman says it's been acting up. You need anything?"

He thinks about pulling her in for a kiss, but decides against it; there's not really any privacy here. "Nah, I'm good."

She hesitates, then leans in and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she grins and slips away.

He props himself up in the bed and watches her go, smiling to himself. She does love to keep him guessing. Then he rolls and stretches carefully, feeling all the sore places where his skin isn't quite healed.

He hauls himself out of bed and walks the length of the room several times, loosening up the muscles in his legs. Then he settles down at the crates, looking at the pencil and papers she's left behind. She did that deliberately, he knows - he still sends packages with notes and caps back to Duncan every chance he gets. She's seen him do it a few times, but carefully hasn't asked about it or read anything over his shoulder. She just lets him slip his letters in with hers and pretends not to notice.

MacCready starts by wrapping up a hefty pile of caps in a tight cloth binding, taping it together so there will be no telltale rattle and click to the package. There's a certain amount of risk in sending this many caps through provisioners and caravans, but it's working out alright so far. Working for Emma has paid very well indeed; there's plenty of loot to be had, and she takes paying jobs as well in between all the stuff for her settlements. He continues to get an equal share of the haul, as promised. He keeps a small emergency fund in reserve and sends the rest to Duncan.

His letters to his friends are brief. He can read alright, but writing is slow and laborious. He always thanks them, and he always promises to find the cure as quickly as he can. He asks them to write back, although he knows it would be hard for any courier to track him down, as much as he and Emma travel around.

For Duncan, he draws pictures. His son is five; not really up for reading long letters. MacCready prefers to sketch. He's always enjoyed drawing, and he sends all kinds of things. He likes to capture little details. He's drawn a cluster of hubflowers after a heavy rain, when the water beads up on the waxy leaves in little shining balls. Or a rusted motorcycle, standing in the middle of a cracked and empty street. A radstag, standing at the edge of a cliff, looking warily at the land below. When they were in Santuary, he drew Emma's dog, rolling around on the ground and chewing enthusiastically on a battered teddy bear.

Now, he draws the submersible they saw at the bottom of the pit in Dunwich. He shades in the mist all around it, and the hoses snaking up into the distance. He sketches in the shape of the pit from memory as best he can, catching the long, rickety spiral of the stairs as they go up the sides, and the pools of light and darkness.

He puts the picture down when he's done and goes over to the open space on the wall, overlooking the settlement. He can see Emma below, working on the generator. She's got tools scattered everywhere and her hair is in a messy knot on the back of her head. She's focused, concentrating; a little furrow between her eyebrows and the tip of her tongue poking out between her teeth.

MacCready grins and picks up the pencil again. He draws her in broad, quick strokes, catching the outline of her form in the jumpsuit and the scattered tendrils of her hair around her face. He lingers on the pert slope of her nose and the fine bones of her jaw; he can remember how it feels in the palm of his hand. The slim, soft curve of her neck and the firm line of her brow. The way her eyes crinkle up at the edges when she laughs.

She turns and looks up at him, and he freezes. She meets his eyes and smiles. He wonders how much she's able to read him - he's never sure how much she sees.

He folds up his sketches and letter with the package of caps, then wraps it all with another layer. It can go through Emma's provisioner network to Goodneighbor, and Daisy knows where to send it from there.

By the time Emma comes up the stairs, it's all put away, the pencils and paper left sitting on the crate like he'd never touched them.

~~~

By the third day, he's getting restless, and he can tell she is too. She doesn't like to stay in one place very long. He's mostly healed; his skin still itches where the worst of the gouges were, but the wounds are closed and he's ready to get moving. They set out at sunset, going south.

He walks quietly beside her for a while, following an old road. She's looking off into the distance, fiddling absently with the strap of her chest armor. He watches her in little glances, thinking. She took care of him at Dunwich - he needed to lean on her and she was there. And yeah, he returned the favor, but that's good. He likes things to be even. The point is, he could count on her.

Med-Tek is only a couple hours walk to the west from where they are. He's not sure where they're going, but if he told her now, she'd drop everything to help. There are still a lot of unknowns, but if they can make it through the security lockdown, and if they can kill all the ferals, and if the cure is even there and they can make it out, and if they can get it to Duncan on time...

He takes a careful breath. She turns, looking at him, raising one eyebrow. Just waiting for him to ask. It's right there, all of it, a wavering ball of pressure begging to be spilled out.

But he can't quite do it. Trust, he is realizing, is _hard_.

"So, where we headed?" he asks instead.

Something flickers in her eyes too fast for him to see. "Bunker Hill," she says. "I've been meaning to visit. Important trading post and a key defensible location. We definitely want to be allied with them."

He nods. "Yeah, I've been there a couple times. The monument is nice, but nothing compared to the one in the Capital Wasteland."

She casts him a sidelong glance. "I haven't been there before. You're talking about the ruins of D.C., right?"

"Yeah. I'm from there."

"You're a long way from home, then," she says.

"Yeah," he says. Sometimes it feels very long indeed. "So, Bunker Hill for the trading, huh? Why not Diamond City?"

She frowns, shaking her head. "I tried that. It's one of the first places I went when I was traveling with Preston. I didn't like the vibe I got from that place."

"Really? I mean, they're a little uptight, but it's the biggest, safest city in the Commonwealth."

"Sure, as long as you fit their definition of a person," she mutters. "Ghouls and synths need not apply. Plus, they're so paranoid. Whole place full of people always assuming anyone they don't like is a synth. You know, one guy actually pulled a gun on his own brother, accusing him of being a synth. Did it right in the middle of the market place. Security blew him away and everyone just kind of went back to their business."

MacCready thinks about that, watching his feet for a few steps. "Yeah, that's messed up. But it's not like people don't die on the streets of Goodneighbor, too. We don't exactly live in peaceful times."

"That's different," she says. "Sure, people make some bad choices. Raiders, Gunners, triggermen, they're all people too. Plenty out there who'd shoot us for the clothes on our back and the caps in our pockets. But they'd be doing it because they want something, not just because of what we are."

"We're both human though," MacCready points out. "I mean... you are, right?"

She gives him a sharp look and he holds his hands up. "Just asking," he says. "You gotta admit, you can do some unusual stuff."

"I'm not a synth, if that's what you want to know," she says. "Not that it would matter if I were. They're just people, MacCready. That's all. Just people who want to live their lives like anyone else. They're everywhere, and most of the time they're harmless. Even that smug, pompous mayor in Diamond City. He might be a bigot and a slimy politician, but he'd be just as bad if he were human. Makes no difference."

MacCready stops, turning to her. "Whoa, wait - the mayor's a synth?"

She shrugs. "Yeah. That reporter was right about him. But my point is, so what? I'm telling you, so many people are synths. A bunch of my settlers are - hell, a bunch of my Minutemen, too. Even Sturges, that guy back in Sanctuary. Oh, and that singer from the Third Rail. They're still good people."

He stares at her. "How do you know all this?"

She shifts, folding her arms over her chest and looking away. "I can see it," she says after a long moment. They're alone on an empty road in the middle of the night, but she lowers her voice anyway. "The same way I can see people, living things, the way I can pick up details about how people are feeling. Synths look different. They have a different glow. It's still there, they're still alive, it's just different."

"That's... listen, boss, that's a big deal. Nobody can tell the difference between humans and synths. That's kinda the whole point. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." She turns and starts walking again. He falls into step beside her. "It happens with enemies too, you know. Some of the people we've fought have been synths. When they die, there's this little chip left over, deep in their heads. It's always there on the ones that had the different glow."

He gives a low whistle. "If people knew you could do that... it'd be a witch hunt. Do you know how many people would want that ability? Not just Diamond City - can you imagine what the Brotherhood of Steel would do with this? Or, god, the Institute. They'd probably want to lock you up and study you."

She shudders and walks a little faster. "I know. That's why I don't spread it around." She gives him a long, serious look. "I haven't told anyone else. Only you. You understand?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I understand."

~~~

They come upon Bunker Hill in the still quiet of pre-dawn. Most of the place is sleeping, but a few caravan hands are shuffling around, feeding the brahmin and loading or unloading their cargo.

Just inside the gate, Emma stops dead. MacCready puts a hand on his rifle, watching her. She's got an odd, fixed look on her face. She turns slowly, staring at one of the caravan hands, standing to one side of the entrance and smoking.

"Alright," she says, "that's it."

"What?" MacCready asks.

She tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow and tugs him hastily away, around the edge of the wall and into the other side of the settlement. They huddle against a building. "It's him," she says. "The same guy who was watching me in Goodneighbor. I saw him in Diamond City too, but there, he was pretending to be a guard. And now he's here, pretending to be a caravan hand."

"Really?" he asks. "You sure?"

"Definitely," she says. "No mistaking him. He's wrapped up in so many layers I can't even tell what's real and what isn't."

MacCready repeats that to himself a few times, as if it might start to make more sense. "Yeah, I'm not sure what that means."

"It means he's so good at lying it's seeped into him, become part of his core personality," she says. "It's what he's made of. It shows."

"Okay," he replies slowly. "Do you hear yourself when you stay stuff like that?"

She gives an impatient huff and rolls her eyes. "Just take my word for it. It's not something I can explain properly. It's like - how would you describe the color red to someone who couldn't see color?"

He blinks a few times, trying to get his head around that one. "I... wow, okay. That actually helps." It does mean he's the colorblind one in her example, but it at least explains why she can't be any clearer.

"He saw us come in, too. He was waiting for us. How does he always get to places before me?"

"Look, maybe the guy just gets around," MacCready says. "Think about it - Diamond City, Goodneighbor, and now Bunker Hill; those are all the biggest, busiest settlements in the Commonwealth. Most drifters will come through all of those places eventually."

She's shaking her head. "That makes it easier for him to blend in, but it's no coincidence."

"Okay, so what's the play? I've got your back, but if you want to take him out, this isn't the best place to do it."

"No, nothing like that," she says. "He's not outright hostile. I don't want to kill anyone I don't have to. I think we need to talk with him. Somewhere private, where he can't slip away."

"How do we do that?"

"Maybe we can bluff," she says. "Pretend to know him. He probably has a million different cover stories - he can't keep them all straight. I could walk up, call him Johnny or something, act like we're old pals. Offer to buy him a drink."

"Okay, two things," MacCready says. "One, you're going to offer to buy a guy a drink at four in the morning? And two, boss, I'm sorry but you suck at lying. You just can't do it. He's not gonna believe you."

She blows an irritated breath out through her teeth. "Fine. Fair point. Do you have a better idea?"

"Go with your strengths. You're good at knowing when people are lying, right?"

"Yeah," she says. "I can usually see it."

"So, if he's as much of a liar as you say, he's gonna hate that. It'll throw him off balance. I say we walk up, right there by the gate. Right in public. Call him out. Be loud and obvious about it. And then every time he lies, every time he even starts to lie, point it out. Catch him at it. Call it when he's telling the truth, too. Make it clear you can tell the difference and he's not getting away with anything."

A slow smile spreads across her face. "That's brilliant," she says. "And evil. You're an evil genius. I love it."

MacCready grins. She grabs him by the hand and tugs him back around to the main entrance. The man is still there, leaning against a wall. He's got on a battered cap and a thick winter jacket in deference to the chilly morning air. MacCready has to admit, the guy does blend into the background pretty well. He looks like any other caravaner; even the weird sunglasses-at-night thing isn't a huge tipoff.

Emma marches up and stops directly in front of him, hands on her hips, feet planted firmly. She's standing just a little too close for comfort and MacCready can see the man automatically try to lean back, but he's against the wall and has nowhere to go. MacCready slides up beside him, moving so he's blocking the main exit.

"Okay," Emma says. "Let's talk. Why are you following me?"

He stares at her for a beat. "Sorry, lady. Wrong guy. Don't know you."

"That's a lie. Try again."

"Whatever," he says. "I'm just here to trade."

"Still lying." She leans in a little closer. "You were dressed as a guard in Diamond City. As a random drifter in Goodneighbor. And now here you are - what are you supposed to be?"  
He frowns and edges a little to the side. MacCready grins at him and doesn't budge.

"Seriously, I don't know what you're talking about," he says.

"Lying." She sighs and shakes her head, making a little tsk noise. "I'd tell you if you were telling the truth, too, but you haven't yet."

The man gives an irritated sigh. "Look, we just got in. I'm tired. Go away."

"Ah! Good!" Emma says, smiling brilliantly at him. "That was true! You are tired. But you didn't just get in. So only half credit, I'm afraid."

It's hard to read the man's expression behind his sunglasses, but MacCready can see his jaw tighten. "Yeah, think I've hit my limit for crazy today, thanks. Gonna go now."

He starts to move away from the wall. Emma presses her palm against his chest, pushing him back. The guy has at least six inches on her, and probably fifty pounds, but he lets her hold him in place. She keeps her hand there, and a wondering look spreads over her face. "Oh," she murmurs. "I can get through the layers."

"What?" the man says, startled. "Lady, I don't have any chems and I'm not interested in whatever whackadoo shit you are up to. Leave me alone."

"This is so cool," she says. She's staring at her hand. She reaches her other hand toward MacCready; he takes it automatically. She draws in a sharp breath. " _Wow_. I couldn't do this before."

The man tries to edge to one side. She pushes him harder into the wall.

"That's enough. Hands off or I'm getting the guards over here."

"No you're not," she says absently. "Empty threat. You don't want their attention."

MacCready can see the guy's throat move when he swallows.

"Plus, you don't think I'll hurt you. You've been watching me long enough to know that."

"You are officially creeping me out," he says.

She smiles. "That one was true."

He scowls and twists, rolling out from under her hand, then sliding past both of them. "Good luck with her, buddy," he says over his shoulder to MacCready. "Better you than me."

Emma turns. "Deacon," she says.

The man stops dead for a moment, then turns, staring at her. "What did you say?"

"That's your name, isn't it? One of them, anyway. The one closest to you now." She flashes an excited grin. "It is, I can see it is."

He hesitates. "Do... do you have a geiger counter?"

Emma cocks her head to one side. "I can't see that. I don't know the answer you want."

The man's eyebrows lift; he licks his lips nervously. "And we're done. This has been super fun. Let's do it again never. Bye!"

Then he hustles out, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets, not quite running. MacCready gives Emma a long, careful look. She's beaming, bouncing up on her toes, staring at her hand. MacCready is aware that they're drawing rather a lot of attention and he grabs her by the arm, finding a quieter corner.

"Okay," he says. "What the heck was that?"

She laughs, then jumps at him, flinging her arms around him in an impulsive hug. "That was _amazing_. I've never done that! I can get feelings usually, and things like hunger or pain or if someone is sick, but never actual facts. Never a name or a thought or like, _details_ , you know? And I still only got a little; I could tell he wanted some kind of particular answer to that geiger counter thing, but not what it was. Even just getting his name was sure enough to rattle him though, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," MacCready says. "He wasn't the only one."

She sighs and steps back, then gives him a hopeful smile. "Come on," she says. "Don't freak out. This is cool! I knew I was getting stronger; I can pick up targets from a greater distance and see them more clearly, and I'm less bothered by interference. I'm also getting a lot more clarity around picking up how people are feeling. That's all you - you make me stronger, you have from day one. But this is a totally new thing. When I touched him, my hand actually went through all that crap he's wrapped up in and I could get at something underneath."

MacCready takes a measured breath. "Okay. Look, it's just a lot all at once, okay? First the whole synth detection thing, and then this. I got used to the seeing through walls trick - that's actually pretty useful. And the thing where you can read people and know if they're lying or holding out on you, that always comes in handy when we're negotiating for a better paying job. And I'll probably get used to this, too. Give me some time to come around."

Emma spreads her hands. "Yeah, alright, fair enough. I'm just excited. It's like discovering a new superpower."

He can't help but smile. "Yeah, you're like the Mistress of Mystery."

"Who?"

"You know, from those old Unstoppables comics?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think I ever saw those."

"Really? Not even as a kid? I had almost the whole set of the Grognak series. I was just missing the one where Mastadonald and Skullpocalypse teamed up to fight him."

Emma raises one eyebrow. "Are you having a stroke? Because I think most of those words were not English."

"Yeah, well, now you know how it feels when you say something crazy," he replies.

"Smartass." She smiles, then yawns widely. "We should probably grab a little rest. Most of this place won't be waking up for a few more hours."

"Sounds good." He pauses, then adds, "Hey, your new mind-reading trick... is that going to happen with me too?"

"No," she says immediately. "With Deacon, I was really pushing. Trying hard to see something behind all his walls. I had to work at it, it took focus. It didn't just happen accidentally. It would only happen with you if I deliberately tried, and even then, I don't know if I'd get anything. I mean, I only got his name. Not exactly a deep dark secret." She gives MacCready a serious, level stare. "And I won't be deliberately trying to get anything from you, in case that wasn't clear. I know there's stuff you're not ready to tell me. I have stuff too. I'm not going to try and force it."

"Alright," he says. He thinks this would've been a deal breaker for him if it had happened a couple months ago, but now, it's okay. Weird, but okay. She said she wouldn't take what he wasn't ready to give, and he believes her.

~~~


	14. The Letter

They get a few hours sleep in one of the little rented shacks. Emma wakes first, bounding up off the battered mattress with her usual speed. "I'm gonna ask around," she says. "See what work I can scare up for us. I figure if we pull a few jobs, help out around here, they'll be more likely to sign on with the Minutemen."

MacCready yawns and sits up, twisting until his back makes a satisfying crackling noise. "Yeah, okay," he says. "I might do a little trading."

She nods. "I'll catch up with you later." Then she's off. MacCready has seen this pattern before; she'll make a slow, methodical loop of the settlement, talking to everyone. She always asks a lot of questions when she's picking up work, gathering rumors and finding leads on more potential jobs. It keeps them amply supplied with opportunities to earn caps, but following her around when she does it tends to be pretty boring. He's glad to be left to his own devices.

He gathers up his pack and weapons, then swings by Savoldi's place for some breakfast. The owner and his son are having some kind of argument about synths; MacCready just keeps his head down and ignores it.

It's a bright, warm day; he finds himself turning his face up into the midmorning sun and smiling as he makes his way across the settlement and into the main trading post. The kid hanging around out front tries to sell him a tour, but MacCready isn't about to fall for that one. He shakes his head and makes a beeline for Deb, the local general merchant.

"Hey," she says as he approaches. "You buying or selling?"

"Little of both," MacCready says. "Let's see what you've got."

He offloads most of the chems and spare ammo he picked up on the last few jobs. As they finish haggling over the prices, Deb keeps giving him uncertain glances, like she's trying to place him. Eventually, she just asks, "What's your name?"

He folds his arms. "Why does that matter?"

"Jeez, relax a little," she mutters. "You look like someone. Do you know Daisy in Goodneighbor?"

"Yeah," he says slowly. "I know her. So?"

"She asked me to be on the lookout for someone. Gave me a description, sounds kinda like you. Except you're dressed different. You got the bad teeth, though."

MacCready narrows his eyes. "Yeah. Thanks. Like yours are perfect."

She gives an impatient huff. "God, touchy. I'm trying to do you a favor here - Daisy said this guy got a package through a caravan contact of hers. From way south, down in the Capital Wasteland. That sound like it might be you?"

His stomach lurches and he grips the edge of the counter. "What? Yes, what is it? Who's it from? Does she have it?"

"Slow down," Deb says. "Daisy gave me a name. Tell me what it is so I know you're the right guy."

"MacCready," he says. "When did you hear from her? Does she still have it?"

"Nah, actually, I do," she says. "Daisy said you haven't been back to town for a while. She put the word out to all the local traders to try and get the message to you, and left the package with me since Bunker Hill is kind of the main hub."

MacCready nods and waves one hand in an impatient gesture. "Fine, right, I get it. It's for me, let me see it."

"This ain't a public service, buddy," Deb says. "I'm gonna need a finder's fee."

He scowls but digs in his pocket. "Some favor," he says. "How much?"

"Yeah, maybe it would've been free if you weren't such an asshole about it," she replies. "Twenty caps."

For anything else, he would've argued. Would have bargained the price lower, complained about the raw deal, especially since she's selling something that is basically worthless to her and only matters to him. But this is about Duncan, and suddenly worrying about caps seems pointless. He hands them over without a word.

Deb reaches behind the counter and pulls out a heavily wrapped envelope. He snatches it and turns away, staring down at it. Layered in old plastic and duct tape, it's sealed much the way he seals his shipments of caps and letters. It'll take a knife to get the thing open.

"You're welcome," Deb calls after him as he walks away. He barely hears her.

His feet carry him toward the monument and he climbs the stairs on autopilot. The top will be quiet and private, and that suits him fine. He can hear his heartbeat rushing in his ears, pulsing through him so hard his fingers tremble and everything feels far away. It's news about Duncan. It has to be. And they wouldn't write to tell him nothing has changed. So either it's good news, and he's getting better - or it's not.

There's an old folding chair and a little metal table by the window at the top of the monument. He falls into the chair, his knees buckling beneath him. He turns the envelope over and over in his hands. His vision starts to blur and he blinks rapidly, then puts a hand over his eyes and forces himself to breathe.

"Okay," he mutters. "It's fine, it's okay, come on."

He doesn't want to open it. As long as he doesn't know, there's still hope. But no - not knowing will make him crazy. He _has_ to open it.

He pulls his knife from his belt, then pauses with the tip poised over the thick wrapping. What he really wants, he realizes, is for Emma to do it. For her to be here, and open it, and read it with him. He doesn't want to do this alone.

But that means explaining this whole thing first, and he doesn't think he can do that. Not in any way that makes sense, not when his stomach is knotted and his hands are shaking and he can't get a coherent thought past the roar in his head.

The first slice through the layers of duct tape is the hardest. He's as careful as he can be, focusing on getting the thing open without destroying what's inside. He keeps shaking his head, mumbling to himself. _Shh, it's fine, it'll be okay. He's okay. Don't freak out, don't panic, it's okay._

He recognizes the handwriting on the inside; his old friends, the only ones he had left. The only ones he trusted with Duncan. And he'd known, of course, that it had to be from them. There was really no other possibility. Even so, seeing that handwriting makes it real and he has to put a hand over his mouth.

He unfolds the letter; it rattles in his hands.

_MacCready - first, before you lose it, Duncan is alive._

The sound he makes is more of a choked sob than a laugh, but the relief is enormous, swelling in his chest and leaving him dizzy. He scrubs his knuckles over his eyes and keeps going.

_We got the caps and stuff you've been sending. Thanks for that, it's kept us all fed. Duncan likes the pictures you drew. I never knew you could draw like that. Sometimes he draws too, when he's having good days. He's still sick - the boils come and go. On good days he can eat and walk around a little. On bad days he stays in bed._

_You said in your letters that you're close to finding a cure. I'm writing to tell you lately he's having more bad days than good. I don't think he can beat this thing on his own. He's getting real thin and we're worried. Maggie's fallen for this kid. She thinks we should have one of our own, she likes him so much. I gotta admit, I'm in the same boat. Please hurry._

MacCready turns the letter over, but that's all of it. He reads it three more times. He remembers all too well how frail Duncan was when he left - already so weak he could barely walk. If he's taken a turn for the worse since then...

He shakes his head and swallows hard. Duncan is tough. He's lasted this long, and MacCready is so close to getting that cure. If it's even there. If it exists, if it actually works, and if they can get it.

No. He pushes all that away. It has to be there. He can't let himself doubt it. He's just got to figure out how to explain this to Emma. He can't do it without her help, and if there was ever going to be a time to trust her, this is it.

He looks out the window, trying to put it together in his head. It'll have to be the truth; she'll see through anything else. He'll find her, and just lay out the whole mess, and she'll take charge because it's what she does. Even the thought of it is such a relief; he's so tired of carrying all this worry alone. He just needs a few minutes first to get himself together. He still feels raw, everything close to the surface, thick pressure in his chest and a hot prickle at the backs of his eyes.

He's still sitting there trying to breathe when the winding steel staircase creaks and rattles, and he turns. He's not really surprised to see Emma. She always seems to know.

"Hey," he says.

She regards him wordlessly for a long moment. Then she perches on the small table beside him and pulls him close, tucking his face against her chest. He puts his arms around her and squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel her fingertips sifting through his hair, stroking the nape of his neck. She rocks them a little and it's like something unraveling, the tight tangled mess in his chest and belly easing into calm warmth.

When he pulls back, she cups his face in both hands and kisses him; it's cool and sweet and soothing, like a long drink on a hot day. "Please tell me," she says. "Whatever it is. Let me help."

"Yeah," he says. "I do need your help. I can't do this."

She nods. "Whatever you need. What's wrong?"

He hands her the letter. She scans over it quickly, then gives him a questioning look.

"Duncan is my son," MacCready says. "When I left the Capital Wasteland, I left my family behind. Well, what was left of it. My wife's name was Lucy. She, uh..." He takes a careful breath. "She died a few years ago. Ferals. There were so many of them, and they're so fast. A sniper rifle isn't built for speed. I tried, I did try, but it was all I could do just to get Duncan out of there. We ran. I always... well I always hoped it was fast. That she didn't suffer."

"Hey," she says. "Look at me."

He lifts his head, blinking up at her. She strokes her thumb over his cheek. "You saved your son. There's no way you could have saved them both. It wasn't your fault."

He closes his eyes. "I keep telling myself that," he says. "But - thank you. Feels good to hear it from you."

She doesn't answer, just trails her fingers through his hair and waits.

"Like you saw in the letter, Duncan is sick," he continues. "I don't know what's wrong with him. He was fine, playing out in the fields behind our farm, and then suddenly he came down with a fever and these blue boils popped up all over his body. He's only five - it hit him hard. He was in no shape to make it all the way to the Commonwealth. I've got a couple good friends and they've been looking after him for me. But now... I don't know if he can last much longer."

"You came here for a reason," Emma says. "You wouldn't leave him behind unless it was to save him. What do you need?"

"You've already done so much for me," he says. "I didn't want to ask for more. And this is risky."

"I'm in. Risky is what we do," she says, a wry twist to her mouth. "I'm with you."

And he'd known, of course, that she'd be with him. That she'd help, immediately and without question. He'd been almost entirely sure that would be her response, but it's still a warm rush of relief to hear her say it. "Thank you," he says. "It doesn't seem like enough, but thank you. I was hoping you'd say that."

"You've saved me more times than I can count," she says. "And in more ways than you realize. Tell me the plan."

He nods and takes a deep breath. "A few months before we met, I got a line on a possible cure for Duncan. Met a guy named Sinclair who said his buddy caught some kind of disease. Didn't believe it until he mentioned the blue boils. I mean, that's pretty specific, right? They found some information about a place called Med-Tek Research. They even got the building's security lockdown codes. It never went further than that, though - his friend died before they were able to break in."

"Sounds like you're most of the way there," she says. "I'm guessing you already tried on your own?"

"Yeah. Place is overrun with ferals. Last time they nearly tore me apart. When we met, I was trying to save up enough to hire a crew, go in with help."

"Okay. We'll figure out a strategy. For this one, I think we might be better off going with just the two of us. Ghouls are fast, but not well armored. Plus, I can usually see them coming. My pistol tends to be really effective against them, especially in close quarters where they can't swarm us as well. I'll need you to show me Med-Tek on my map. Is it far from here? Could we get there by tonight if we left now?"

And just like that, she's on board, in control, ready to make it happen. It feels like something heavy being lifted from his shoulders; he can breathe again. He squeezes her hands, hoping she can pick some of this up. That she can read what he can't find the right words to say.

"Yeah," he says. "It's not far."

~~~


	15. Med-Tek

Emma drops her plans without hesitation. No more trade deals, no job hunting, no trying to make nice with Bunker Hill. They focus on prep work. They sell most of their heavy loot and load up on stimpaks and anti-rad meds. MacCready makes sure he has plenty of shells for his shotgun, and Emma carries several clips for her quick little 10mm.

They finish the prep fast and get on the road by mid-day, not even waiting for her usual night time travel habit. MacCready tries to focus on the walk, and watching their surroundings. He can't let himself think too much.

This will be different than the last time, he's sure. For one thing, he's much better equipped. A rifle is really not the right weapon to go up against ferals in close quarters, no matter how good he is with it. And he's got better armor, too. It's well fitted, tough, and lead-lined. He barely felt the last rad storm.

And of course, the real game changer is Emma. She can tell the difference between a dried up husk and a feral who's only playing dead, and she can do it at a good distance. She's deadly fast and accurate with that pistol, and the suppressor means they're more likely to go undetected until she's picked off several of them.

Really, he tells himself, this'll be easier than taking the Gunner base. Ferals don't use guns, after all. It'll definitely be easier than Dunwich. He just needs to keep his head in the game. Stay focused. He can't afford to be scared.

He navigates for them, and they come up on Med-Tek near sunset. They peer at the entrance from behind some old concrete barriers. He can see a couple ferals shuffling around the parking lot, and some more lying on the ground; they might be dead, or they might just be waiting.

"How many?" he asks.

She leans in, letting their shoulders press together. "I make five on the outside. Those two that are up, plus three of the bodies."

He nods. "Point me to the sleepers that are furthest away. I'll pick them off with the rifle. You get the closer ones."

She takes the rifle and sights down the scope, marking the targets with the recon sensors. Then she hands it back over and pulls her pistol. They're well practiced at this by now, and need little conversation. MacCready lines up his first shot and waits, breathing slowly; the shooter's calm that washes over him is a relief.

Emma touches his shoulder; that's his cue. The first shot is quiet and clean. The feral jerks and slumps down against the pavement. The second target is just starting to stir when he hits it, a solid body shot. Emma is already picking off the two that were walking around, taking them out at the legs. A feral that can't run is no threat.

MacCready gets the last one as it runs toward them, hitting it hard in the chest and sending it skittering back. They wait a few beats, making sure no others pop up, but her count was accurate.

"Okay," she says, standing. "Ready?"

He nods. They enter the building together.

On the inside, it looks like any other wrecked office; a trashed waiting room, dim and dusty. "Alright," he says. "Let's find that executive terminal. Sinclair said that's the only way we can override the facility's lockdown."

They slink through the offices, keeping close to the wall. Emma's got her pistol in one hand and the other tucked in the crook of his elbow. It's a familiar move; makes her senses sharper. He knows she's scanning for trouble and they'll have advance notice of any nearby hostiles.

She's methodical, checking every room, picking a few locks if the doors aren't already open. He notices she's not bothering with picking up scrap, though. She even bypasses a few of her favorites, aluminum cannisters and old telephones. This trip is all about the goal.

A couple ferals crawl through a hole in the ceiling at the base of the stairs, but Emma sees them coming and is already waiting in the doorway, weapon up and ready. MacCready watches her back while she takes them both out; two shots each does the job.

There are more on the second floor, walking around, agitated. They know they're not alone. He's not worried, though. Two or three ferals aren't a problem for them at this point. He aims for the one on the right; she likes to start on the left. They make quick work of them. He can hear growling and shuffling footsteps, but there are gaping holes in the floor and ceiling and he's not sure where it's coming from. He watches Emma; she's tracking something up ahead of them, behind some toppled filing cabinets. When the feral pops out, she's ready, taking its head off with a point blank shot.

She pauses, scanning, then nods. "There are more, but not close by," she says.

They keep moving, climbing a collapsed section of flooring to reach the next level up. Emma pauses just before an open doorway and flattens herself against the wall. He leans in beside her. "Three in that room," she whispers. "One of them is very bright. Probably hard to kill."

"Time to be loud?"

"I think so. But expect company after we clear this room. More will come running."

He switches to the shotgun. She sweeps in low, taking the first one out at the knees before it sees her coming. Two more pop up, and MacCready can see the one she was worried about; it's thick, charred and bulging, covered in a tough outer layer. He pounds it with three hard shots directly in the chest, then swings the shotgun like a club, knocking it down. It falls, but doesn't die.

He holds the barrel of the gun against its face and pulls the trigger twice more. The noise is thunderous; the mess spatters his legs. He hears a growl behind him and spins, but Emma's already putting it down, a shot in the back of one leg destroying its withered knee. It tries to drag itself along the floor toward them and she finishes it.

"Down," she says. "Behind the desk. Incoming."

They take cover. Shuffling, raspy footsteps come down the hall; their wordless moans echo, drawing close. MacCready reloads, forcing his hands steady. It's just like any other job, he tells himself. Beside him, Emma is all business, calm and focused. It helps.

The office is a dead end, the door the only way in or out. They're pinned down, but it's also more defensible that way. The ferals have to walk into their sights, and they're not smart enough to do anything else.

They come in a rush, making a bottleneck at the doorway. MacCready shoots again and again, going for the legs when he can. The air grows thick with the stink of gunpowder and the sulphorous rot of dead ghoul. By the end, his clip is empty and there's a pile of bodies at least three deep. They have to climb over to get out.

Emma pulls him close, touching his face. He slips an arm around her, watching over her shoulder for more trouble. "Clear?" he asks.

"On this floor, yeah," she says. "More below, but they're far."

They check two more offices before finding the right terminal. MacCready doesn't let himself think about what they'll do if Sinclair's passcode doesn't work. It has to work. He's not worried. He tells himself that right up until the machine makes an agreeable beep and the screen fills up, awaiting commands, and then he sags in relief. "Thank god that worked," he mutters. He ignores the sales reports and goes straight for the command that will disable the security lockdown.

"Okay," he says, turning to her. "Now we need to find our way down to the sub level. That's where Med-Tek should be storing the cure. We passed the airlock on the way up."

"I remember it," she says, and flashes him a smile. "So far, so good."

He tries to smile back. Some part of him doesn't want to get his hopes up. Not yet. There are still too many things that can go wrong.

The way down is quick, with the ferals already wiped out. The airlock opens on request; MacCready finds himself staring at it for a long moment. This is further than he's ever gotten and it all feels too easy. Something has got to go terribly wrong soon.

"Careful," he murmurs to Emma. "I'm flying blind now. Not sure what's past these doors."  
She nods. They pass under the decon arches and she pokes her head around the door at the far end. He hears the whirring noise a moment too late; he yanks her back but she still yelps when the turret clips her shoulder.

She slides down the wall, clutching her arm, dark blood blooming on her shirt. He pulls out a stimpak and injects it between her fingers. She gives a pained hiss. "Turrets," she mutters irritably. "I hate turrets."

"Only cause your x-ray vision doesn't work on them," he says.

"Exactly," she replies. "That, and the damn things never run out of bullets. Like, how is that even possible?"

He settles next to her and she leans in, resting her cheek on his shoulder. He smoothes her hair back and presses a kiss to her temple; the corner of her mouth quirks into a smile.

Then she swings to her feet, rolling her shoulder a little to test it. She lifts her pistol and whips around the corner already shooting, destroying the turrets before they can zero in on her again. Once the room is clear, she pauses to check the security terminal just inside the door.

"Figures," she mutters. "Why do I always find these things _after_ the turrets are already blown up?"

"Anything useful?"

"Some doors I can open. Come on."

They keep moving; the place is big, but fairly linear. They're quiet and manage to sneak up on most of the ferals, but there's a spot down the hall where several pop out from the surrounding offices at once. MacCready takes a serious swipe on the leg and goes down. Emma stands over him, shooting three of them in the head in rapid succession. He injects a stimpak and helps as much as he can from the floor, taking two out at the knees with his shotgun.

By the time they're all dead, the stimpak has worked and he's back on his feet. Emma touches his hand, questioning, and he nods.

They skirt around the edge of a reactor, Emma's geiger clicking angrily. MacCready pops a Rad-X, grimacing at the bitter taste. There are a few more clusters of ferals, but only two or three at a time as they advance. The next room is bigger, with little sealed enclosures lining the walls. Each one has a window showing a hospital bed, and a mag-locked door.

Emma narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "Test subjects," she says. "Not voluntary ones, either."

"Looks like a bunch of them are still up and around," MacCready points out. Ferals snarl at them from the other side of the glass in several of the cells.

"Think about that," she says. "Locked up and experimented on, injected with god knows what, poked and prodded and treated like an animal. And then the war happens, and they wind up trapped in those tiny rooms for centuries, turning feral." She shudders, something cold and distant in her eyes. "Makes me wish I could get my hands on the doctors who did this. They're the real bastards here."

"Don't feel too sorry for the ferals," he says. "They'll still tear you apart if you let them."

"Oh, I know. If I were in their place, I'd do the same."

They go around the room methodically. Emma hacks each terminal, opening the doors, then killing the feral inside. One at a time, they're no threat.

"We could just leave them," he points out.

She shakes her head. "They've been in prison long enough. Better to be dead than locked up forever."

They take the elevator down to the sub level. The air is rank, filled with the sour rot of enclosed ferals, layered with some kind of weird burnt chemical smell. MacCready covers his mouth with one hand. Emma grimaces, but pushes on.

More holding cells line the room, and two turrets mounted on the ceiling whirr angrily. MacCready takes out the furthest one with his rifle; Emma takes the close one. They circle the room and come to a terminal. Emma activates a protectron; it totters into the room, burbling to itself about protecting and serving. Then she presses another button and the cells open.

The ferals swarm around the protectron; it makes an easy and obvious target. They shoot from the upper level, picking them off. A few of the tougher ones manage to run at them, but MacCready takes them out before they can get too close.

The stairs leading down are blocked with debris, but a collapsed section of floor grants them access to the deepest level. Emma pauses at the bottom, peering down the hallway into the wider room ahead. She reaches for him and laces their fingers together.

"Lot of them in there," she says. "Lot of interference, too. Might be heavy rads."

He nods. "Already took a Rad-X. You should, too."

She glances at her Pip-Boy. "I'm still okay. I don't think we can sneak up on these ones, they'll see us as soon as we go through the doorway. There's no cover."

"Draw them in?" he suggests. "If they rush us in this hallway we'll have an easy shot."

"Maybe," she says. "But I don't like it. I can see too many, and they're too strong. We could get overwhelmed and stuck here."

"So what's plan B?"

She grins. "Your favorite - blowing stuff up." She slides frag mines out of the pockets of her pack, one after another, until she has five lined up in a row on the floor. MacCready gives them an uneasy glance.

"Boss, this place is falling apart. I don't want it coming down on our heads."

"You'd rather be eaten by ferals?"

He shudders. "Not so much. But are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Most of my ideas are not terribly well thought out," she says, "but it seems to be working for me so far. Here we go."

She slinks forward before he can argue, slipping quietly along the wall, the mines in a stack in her arms. She lays the first just inside the doorway, then each one a few steps beyond it, arming them as she goes. MacCready grips the stock of his rifle and watches, distantly aware that he's holding his breath.

They retreat to the base of the collapsed floor section and she pulls out a plasma grenade. She lobs it underhand, past the frag mines and into the room beyond. It rolls across the floor. The ferals snarl when they notice it, and then it goes off in a blast of greenish light.

The first frag mine blows as the ferals converge on them; severed limbs go flying. The rest of them don't slow down. MacCready loses track after that. There are explosions and the rattle of shrapnel and a cloud of plaster dust and viscera. Emma is pressed beside him, shoulder to shoulder, firing at anything still moving. He does the same, shooting the clip dry, then reloading.

By the time the dust settles the hallway is creaking and groaning around them and several of the wall panels have fallen apart, but the ferals are all dead and they're still standing. Emma coughs, waving away the dust, and they stumble into the main room. Blast marks and burns scar the walls, and there are bits of ghoul everywhere.

"Wow," MacCready says. "If they didn't know we were here before, they sure know now."

She nods. "That's the idea. We just wiped out most of them; they all came toward the noise."

"Any left?"

She squints, tilting her head to one side. MacCready comes up behind her and slips his arms around her waist. She sags a little, leaning into him, and he leans right back. He knows this helps her see better, but if he's being honest, he's glad to have the excuse. A little bit of softness is welcome in the middle of so much death.

"Maybe one or two more, deeper in," she says. "Lot of metal, lot of rads. It's hard to see. But we're close."

"Let's finish it, then," he says. He doesn't think about what he'll do if the cure isn't there. It'll be there.

A terminal unlocks the last room at the end of the hall. There are three ferals inside, and one of them glows brightly, painting the walls with sickly green light. They pull back and shoot as the ferals come barreling through the doorway, one at a time. The glowing one goes down the hardest.

Emma looks around, then stands up straight, nodding to him. They sweep the room. There are chems everywhere, stashed in cabinets and lined up on racks. Stimpaks and Med-X, Rad-X and radaway. All useful, but not what he needs. MacCready forces his hands steady, makes himself breathe in and out. He'll find it.

"Hey," Emma says. "Is this it?"

He whirls, hurrying over to her. She points to an ampoule of medicine on the counter, one he doesn't recognize. It says _Prevent_ on the side. He reaches out and brushes trembling figertips over the word. "Yeah," he says. "That's it."

She nods and pulls out a rag, wrapping the medicine carefully. She ties it off with a twist of wire then holds it out to him. He takes the little bundle, staring down at it in his palm. It's very light, very small. It seems impossible that something so insubstantial could be the thing that saves Duncan's life.

"We did it," he murmurs. "Holy crap, we actually did it!" He can hear his voice break, but he doesn't care. He looks at Emma. "Thank you. I can't... I can't ever repay you for this. Thanks to you, Duncan actually has a fighting chance."

"We talked about this," she says. "You don't owe me anything. Let's just get him that cure. What comes next?"

"Goodneighbor," he says. "Daisy is my connection to the caravan that can get this to Duncan. Can we go straight there? I usually send stuff through your provisioners, but for this..."

"Of course," she says.

MacCready tucks the cure carefully into his pack, wrapping it in another layer of cloth and nestling it in toward the center. When he finishes, she takes his hands, pulling him close. She curls her fingers around the back of his neck and kisses him on the cheek, then the jaw, then the soft spot on his throat that always makes him shiver. "You did it," she whispers in his ear. "You saved him."

He wraps his arms around her and squeezes hard. " _We_ did. I should've told you a long time ago."

She gives him a long, thoughtful look. "Come on," she says. "Let's get out of here."

~~~


	16. Aftermath

It takes the rest of the night and a good chunk of the next day to walk to Goodneighbor. They've been up for more than two days straight by the time they arrive, with only a brief nap at Bunker Hill before that. He's running on adrenalin and sheer stubbornness. Beside him, Emma looks pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her steps are slow and tired, but she doesn't complain.

His leg hurts and his clothes are stiff with dried ghoul blood and he smells awful, but none of it matters. They hand the cure off to Daisy; she promises it'll get to Duncan. He believes her. He has to. He watches as she tucks it carefully away, wrapped in thick layers. It still seems so small.

Then they totter down the street toward the Rexford by mutual unspoken agreement. They wind up with the same room they first shared months ago, when she hired him. He's too exhausted to comment about it. They drop all their gear in a messy heap just inside the door, stripping off their armor and most of their outer layers of clothing.

Emma falls into bed and holds an arm up, inviting him in. He crawls under the blanket beside her, curling around her warmth. It's only then, when he's safe and comfortable and has his cheek resting against the soft skin of her shoulder that it finally starts to sink in. It's over. It's out of his hands. Either the cure will get there in time, and work - or it won't. Either way, there's nothing more he can do.

Before, he always had a purpose, something to drive toward. Some action he could take. Finishing the job is a relief, but it also leaves a wide, empty space. He pulls Emma closer, squeezing his eyes shut, hiding his face against her hair.

"It's okay," she says. "It'll work."

"I'm so scared that it won't," he confesses, and it's like a dam bursting, all the worry rushing out at once. "What if it's too late? What if it isn't even the right cure? What if there is no cure? I might not ever see him again. I don't know how long it took that letter to get to me. Maybe he's already... he's so _small_ , Emma, how can he hold on so long? Sinclair's friend was a full grown man and the disease killed him. And those doctors, the way they were experimenting on people, who even knows if they were trying to find a cure? They weren't about helping people. How can I rely on this? I promised him I'd find something but what if I didn't?"

She turns, gathering him up. They rock back and forth and she strokes his hair, kisses his forehead. "I know," she says. "I know."

"I couldn't save Lucy," he says. "If I can't save Duncan, I don't know what I'll do. I can't keep doing this. Losing people. I promised him I wouldn't let him down, but that's what I do, I let everyone down. I suck at keeping promises. Why did I even think I could do this? I'm a hired killer, I don't save people."

"Shh," she says, "don't, MacCready, don't say that. You do save people. You saved me."

"Maybe I deserve to lose him," he says. "You don't know what I did, working for the Gunners. You remember Jun and Marcy? I didn't kill their son, but that's pure chance. If I'd been there, at Quincy, it could've been me. If Duncan dies, maybe that's just karma coming back to bite me."

She cuts him off, pressing her hand against his mouth. "Stop," she says. "It's okay to be scared. It's okay to worry. But don't blame yourself. When I met you, you were starving, desparate, willing to do anything to save him. You are a good, dedicated father and you don't deserve to lose him. And you won't. It's going to be okay."

There's no way she can promise that, no way she can be sure, but the words are comforting anyway. "You think so?"

"I do," she says. "Now hush. It's been a very long day, you're exhausted and overwhelmed and it's making everything feel a lot worse than it is. Get some rest. We'll figure out what comes next together."

"Okay," he says. He already feels sleepier. He spilled everything, let her see him with his guard down, and she's still there. She's still with him. At least that's something he can trust.

~~~

They sleep a long time. When he wakes, the room is dark and chilly, and the town outside is quiet. Very early morning, probably. He's sore and he has an unpleasant layer of grime coating his skin, but the bed is warm and Emma feels soft and familiar against his chest. He trails his fingertips idly over her skin, skating around the edges of her tank top and tangling in her messy hair.

She stretches and props herself up on one elbow, looking at him. His eyes are adjusted to the dark and he can make out the soft gleam of her eyes and the curve of her cheek."Hi," she says quietly.

"Hi." His hand is on her waist and he slips two fingers under the hem of her shirt, touching her belly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better," he says. "Lighter."

She nods. "All that stuff about Lucy and Duncan - that was a lot."

He sighs and rolls over on his back, lacing his hands behind his head. "I wanted to tell you. I'm not sure why I waited so long. We could've gotten that cure weeks ago."

"I understand why you were afraid."

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Because yeah, _afraid_ probably is the right word. Afraid the cure wouldn't be there, and his last hope would be gone. Afraid it would be there and it still wouldn't be enough. And mostly, afraid of relying on her, of laying it all out and trusting someone again.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Turned out pretty well, though."

She settles down beside him and rests a hand on his chest. "Is it okay to ask about her?"

"About Lucy?"

Emma nods, and he thinks about it for a minute.

"I don't really... I haven't talked about her with anyone. I'm not sure what to say."

"When you told me about what happened to her, and about Duncan, we didn't really go into it," she says. "The priority was the cure, and you needed to focus on that. But now... I don't know. It seemed to help, talking about how worried you are about Duncan. I think you needed to say that stuff, to get it out. Maybe there's stuff you need to say about her, too?"

He thinks about that and nods slowly. "It did help. And yeah, maybe. Maybe it would be good. Sometimes I could talk about her to my friends, the ones with Duncan. They knew her. But really, they were her friends first. I'm pretty sure the only reason they were willing to take Duncan in is because of how much they cared about her. I was always bad at connecting with people. Bad at letting them in. But Lucy could do that, could just open up. She was brave."

Emma says nothing. She rubs her knuckles slowly up and down the center of his chest, like she can see the knot there, the thick pressure that makes it hard to breathe when he thinks about Lucy.

"It took me a long time to trust anyone. Even Lucy. She wore me down," he says, smiling. "She was stubborn, and tough, and I could always lean on her. But I didn't tell her everything. I was a merc, even then, a killer. Not with the Gunners, but with another outfit that wasn't much better. I never told Lucy what I did for a living. She was too good for me and I didn't want her to figure that out."

"She chose you," Emma says. "She must have had reasons."

He gives a rueful laugh. "Yeah, I lucked out there. And of course, Duncan came along pretty fast. We were young - too young to have a kid, really, but there you go. She was such a good mom. He adored her. I'd walk into a room and see them sitting together, or she'd be singing to him, walking him around the house when he was still a baby, and I'd wonder how a guy like me ever wound up so rich." He pauses and takes a careful breath. "He was so young when she died. It kills me that he doesn't remember her. And that she never got to see him grow up."

He has to stop there and cover his eyes with one hand. Emma takes his wrist and pulls his hand away, then tugs him onto his side, taking him in her arms. He curls and tucks his face into the crook of her neck.

When Lucy was newly gone and he was alone with Duncan, just trying to survive, he'd had plenty of bad nights. Times when he put on a brave face until Duncan fell asleep, and then he sat huddled in whatever hole they were sheltering in and tried to cry as quietly as he could, so Duncan wouldn't hear. He thought he'd done all his grieving years ago, but it turns out there's a little more.

Emma strokes his back and trails her fingers through his hair, but doesn't shush him. She just lets him go on until he's done.

When he pulls back, his face is hot and his chest keeps hitching into these embarrassing little hiccups, but he also feels better than he has in a long time. He scrubs a sleeve over his eyes and sniffs, then looks away. "Wow," he says, voice coming out rough and uneven. "Uh, sorry about that."

"Don't be," she says.

He nods, but doesn't reply. Crying was the kind of thing that only the very littlest kids in Little Lamplight could get away with; it tended to be harshly derided once you got past the age of four or five. He feels weirdly exposed, having broken down in front of her, and half expects her to point and laugh.

"I'm gonna get cleaned up," he says, and slips out of bed. He ducks into the bathroom and turns on the light; the single dangling bulb overhead throws sharp shadows. He's grateful there's no mirror. He splashes cold water over his face and then just takes a few minutes to breathe.

She knows everything, he realizes. He's got no secrets left. She knows more about him than even Lucy did, and she's seen him with all his walls stripped away. The relationship feels strangely intimate, even though they've never done more than kiss. It's terrifying to give that much of himself to someone else, knowing how it would hurt to lose her. He's not sure he could survive that again.

Too late to worry about that now, though. Might as well face it - he's fallen hard, and he can't take it back. The problem, he thinks, is that it doesn't go both ways. Or if it does, she hasn't told him. She's still got most of her secrets, and doesn't seem inclined to give them up.  
He takes the opportunity to give himself a quick wash, shivering at the cold water and scrubbing his skin as fast as he can. By the time he's clean, goosebumps are pebbling his arms and legs and he just wants to jump back into the warm bed.

Emma yelps when he wraps himself around her; it's an indignant squawk that makes him laugh.

"Cold!" she says sharply. "Jeez, ice feet much?"

He snickers. "Sorry boss, this isn't your luxurious settlement with its warm baths."

She turns to face him. "I think we're past the 'boss' thing, don't you?"

He regards her seriously for a long moment. "Are we?"

Something flashes in her eyes and she touches his face, then leans in, kissing him. It sends sudden, shocking heat racing over his skin, making him shudder. She's eager, nibbling at his lips, licking him, demanding more. Her leg slips in between his and slides right up, brazen as anything.

He gets a hand on her jaw and tilts her head, then licks into her mouth, drawing the tip of his tongue along the lush curve of her bottom lip. She squirms, nails biting his skin, making a low, sweet noise in her throat. He pulls back long enough to look at her face; she's got high patches of color on her cheeks and her eyes are dark and hazy. She meets his eyes for a moment and then looks away.

"Emma," he says, deliberately. He kisses the line of her throat, nipping the soft skin, letting the rough stubble on his jaw scratch her. He draws her earlobe between his lips and licks, then bites gently. "Are you sure?" he asks, murmuring the words so his breath tickles her ear.

She hesitates. That's an answer in itself, and he leans back, watching her face.

"I want to," she says. "I never stopped wanting to. And I want you to know..." She takes a deep breath, then looks up at him. "I figured out a way to tell you everything. To show you, so that you understand. And I'm going to do it. You deserve to know. But I'm..." She bites her lip, and he's alarmed to see the bright sheen in her eyes.

"What?"

She shakes her head. "It's a lot. I am so scared that once you know, you'll leave. And I'll never have this. I wanted to be with you, at least once, while I still have the chance."

He stares at her. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You say that now."

"You're damn right I say that now," he says. "Emma, you took out a Gunner base for me. You held me together in that awful quarry with the ferals. You helped me save Duncan! You've saved my life on more jobs than I can count, and you... you saw all of me, and you stayed. Do you really think there's anything you could tell me that would make me leave?"

"Oh," she says. " _Oh_. I..." She swallows hard and closes her eyes, then kisses him again. Softer, this time. "Then we wait," she murmurs, nuzzling the line of his jaw. "I want to do this right."

"If we're waiting," he says, "you gotta stop doing that."

She smiles and gives him one more kiss. "Okay," she says. "But soon. I have a plan."

MacCready grins. She's always got a plan.

~~~

They use the pre-dawn hours to clean their gear and themselves, organizing the heap they'd left on the floor the day before. Emma keeps checking the time on her Pip-Boy. She's distant, distracted, but MacCready doesn't try to ask why. As the day outside slowly grows light, she becomes more and more tense, her jaw set in a taut line and her hands quivering as they go through their gear.

"Okay," she says, straightening. "Okay. It's late enough. They'll be open now."

"Who will?"

She gives him an unreadable look. "I have to go out for a while. Alone. Some things to get ready."

He frowns. "How long? Are you going outside of Goodneighbor?"

"No, nothing like that," she says. "I'm not sure how long it'll take. A few hours, probably. I'll be in town the whole time."

"You can't tell me?"

She gives him a sad smile. "I'll tell you when I get back. Trust me?"

"Yeah," he says. "Okay. I can do that."

She goes to him then, cupping his face in both hands and kissing him, long and sweet. He can feel her trembling; she's like a live wire, full of pent up energy and worry and feeling. "I'll find you when it's done," she murmurs against his mouth. "Then you'll see. You'll see everything."

He nods and slips his arms around her, pulling her closer. "It'll be okay," he says, because she seems so scared and he has to say _something_.

She looks up at him, then closes her eyes, leaning on him. "Yeah," she says. "I think it will. I hope it will. Either way, I can't keep putting this off. It's time."

Then she pulls away quick, like she wants to get it over with. She's out the door before he can say anything else.

~~~

He wanders around Goodneighbor for a while. It's weird to be back; it hasn't been that long, only a few months, but his life is in a totally different place. He can remember the man he was then, closed-off and wary and selfish. And yeah, he's not exactly a saint these days either, but he does feel different.

For the first time, he starts to think about the possibility of a future. If the cure gets to Duncan in time, and if it works - what then? Emma clearly has serious ties to the Commonwealth, and reasons to be here. She's not likely to go to the Capital Wasteland with him and frankly, he wouldn't want to go back. That place is full of bad memories, and it's not especially safe.

The Commonwealth is no utopia either, but thanks to her Minutemen and her settlement system, they're always only day or two away from a safe place to rest and refuel. They're winning the fight a little more each day, whittling down the number of raiders and mutants and ferals. They're not infinite, despite how it may seem. He can imagine a day when it's safe to walk the streets of downtown Boston. When people can take back all those crumbling buildings and expand outside of tiny fortified settlements.

Hope is dangerous - he's known that for a long time. Hope brings with it the possibility of disappointment, of loss. And he's felt that loss too many times to open himself up again, but maybe... maybe.

He winds up in the Third Rail, sitting in the back room, nursing a drink and listening to the music drifting in. He lets himself imagine what it would be like, having Duncan here. Living in one of Emma's settlements, making a home. Having a family again. Even the thought is scary; he had that once and losing it almost destroyed him. It's such a risk. But what's the alternative? Never being happy? Cutting off all feeling to make sure he never has anything to lose? It's too late for that, and he wouldn't go back even if he could.

Being back in that room makes it all too easy to remember how it felt, how his life was before Emma came. Cold and empty and lonely - he can't do that again. Better to take the risk. She's worth it.

She finds him there, and he has a weird moment of _deja vu_ when she walks in. She pauses in the doorway, staring at him. She looks rough; not as bad as the first time he met her in this room, but not great, either. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, her face pallid, her shoulders slumped.

He holds out his hands. She takes them with a sigh of relief, and then presses closer, nudging them both down onto the couch until she's curled against his chest. He strokes her back, waiting until her breathing evens out and she grows limp and relaxed.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods. "It's done. I was at the Memory Den."

He raises his eyebrows. "Why?"

"I figured the best way to tell you would just be to show you," she says. "To understand what I do, the way I see things, you really have to experience it. I can't describe it. This way, you can see the story the way I did. You can see everything, and judge for yourself."

"So you... what, you pulled out memories for me to see?"

"Yeah. Doctor Amari has it all ready for you."

He thinks about that for a long moment. "Wow. That's..." He shakes his head, not sure what to say.

"It's the best way. The only way to really show you," she says. "But to get them ready, to make the recording, I had to relive them again. Some of them were..." She takes a shuddering breath and presses closer. "It's been a long day."

He kisses her temple, running one hand through her hair. "You didn't have to do that."

"I did," she says firmly. "You deserve to see. No more secrets." Then she pulls back, meeting his eyes. "You should go now."

"You in a hurry?"

"Now that I've started down this path, I want to finish," she says. "I'm tired of keeping things from you. It feels too much like lying. Please - go, before I lose my nerve."

He nods, then touches her face, running his thumb over her cheek. "I'll come back," he says. "You know that, right? I'm coming back."

She leans into the touch and presses a kiss to his palm. "I'll be at our room in the Rexford."

"Okay," he says. "I'll find you there. I mean it, Emma - I'm not going anywhere. You can't get rid of me that easily."

She nods wordlessly, but when she kisses him one more time, it still feels like goodbye.

~~~

He's been to the Memory Den before; he knows what they do. He's even considered using them to remember some of the good times. He could relive the first time Duncan smiled at him, when he was just a baby, or the first time he kissed Lucy. But he never did it - the good memories are bittersweet, and the memory of happiness just hurts all the more when its over.

Doctor Amari meets him downstairs. "Mr. MacCready," she says crisply. "Your friend has explained to you what's going to happen here?"

"Sort of," he says. "I'm going to see her memories?"

Amari nods. "Some of them, yes. She has selected a series of memories and tied them together in a recording. She's also inserted a narrative - you'll hear her voice, guiding you through the memories, explaining. I'm not sure exactly which ones she chose. Your friend is very particular about her privacy; once I showed her how to use the equipment, I left the room."

MacCready nods. "Yeah, that sounds like her."

"It's important that you understand what you're about to do," Amari continues. "This is not like looking at a series of pictures. You will experience everything she did. You'll feel her physical and emotional responses as if they are your own. It will be like placing your mind in another person's body, and living portions of their life. It can be very disconcerting. We generally do not recommend it; most people are better off only experiencing their own memories. There will be significant cognitive dissonance."

"I'm guessing you tried this same argument on her and it didn't work?"

Amari gives him a rueful look. "Yes. And I can see you are no more inclined to listen to reason than she was."

"Look, Doc, I appreciate this. We appreciate it," he says. "She's got good reasons for wanting to do this."

"I imagine so," Amari says. "She was very persuasive on the matter." She sighs, then gestures toward the memory lounger. "I'll monitor your vital signs, but I won't be privy to what the actual memories contain. She was very clear that they are for your eyes only. I'll pull you out if you become too distressed."

MacCready feels a curl of unease in his belly, but he shoves it down. "How long will this take?"

Amari spreads her hands. "Hard to say. Time is subjective in a memory. From your perspective, it may feel very long. In the real world, not much more than an hour."

"Okay," he says, and settles into the lounger. "Let's go."

The lid comes down and the screen in front of him fills with white static. There is a low hiss and he can smell a faint chemical odor. His limbs feel heavy and his eyes droop; gravity seems to press him deeper into the chair.

"That's a mild sedative," Amari's voice says, piped in on the speaker beside his head. "Just relax and try to clear your mind. We'll begin in three... two... one."

~~~


	17. Emma's Story

At first, there is only white. It's bright and overexposed, blinding, and he wants to put a hand over his eyes but he can't move. Then the light starts to fade and resolves into a blank ceiling. He's in bed, in a small room. Everything is still very white - the walls, the sheets, the thin cloth pants and shirt he's wearing. He feels weirdly small and weak. His feet don't reach the end of the bed and his body feels light, frail.

Emma's voice is familiar and warm. He doesn't hear it, exactly; not with his ears.

 _This is the first thing I remember,_ her voice says _. I'm not sure how old I was. Maybe twelve or thirteen? Old enough that I should have more memories before this, but I don't. I was in this room, always in this room. They didn't let me out much._

He sits up in bed. His feet are bare, and the floor is cold beneath them. Moving is strange; it happens without his knowledge or permission. His body moves - _her_ body, he reminds himself - and he is just taken along for the ride. When he stands, a wave of dizziness passes through him because the perspective is all wrong. He's too short, and his legs are the wrong shape and his center of balance is in a totally different place than he's used to.

_I'm not sure if I was born here, or if I had a family once and they took me away. I don't know if they made me the way I am, or if I was born this way and they just found me, and wanted to experiment. To see how they could use me._

That's when MacCready looks down and realizes that he's glowing. Except it's not him - he didn't have the body of a teenage girl, for one thing. He's thin, with skinny pipestem arms sticking out of the short sleeves of his shirt, and bony ankles. The glow is a layer over his skin, swirling silver light, shot through with darker grays. As he watches, the light brightens and fades in a regular rhythm, like a heartbeat.

He finds that seeing that glow feels normal. Familiar. He can even understand what it means, on some automatic, instinctive level. The silver-gray is her personal default, an idle state that indicates no strong feelings one way or another. The degree of brightness indicates overall health; in this case, it's not very good. He's weak, tired - or she is, and he can see it. There is a deeper purplish color in his chest and belly that indicates hunger, and a faint reddish tinge around one knee that suggests pain or a partly healed injury. He's not sure how he knows these things, but the knowledge is there.

_This is what I see when I look at people. As long as I can remember, I've been like this. For a while, I assumed that's what everyone saw. When the scientists showed me pictures, it was so strange. The world is flat and colorless and silent in pictures. I couldn't understand how people could live like that, seeing so little. It must feel like blindness._

He paces, aware of a rising anxiety in his chest. The sense of hunger is growing, but it's not the kind of hunger he's familiar with. This is a crawling want, itching on his skin and aching in his bones. It reminds him of his brief and poorly chosen experiments with chems. It's withdrawal and need and it hurts.

He keeps looking toward a panel in the wall as he paces. He wraps his arms tightly around his chest, squeezing, clutching at his skin, but it's not enough. Not what he needs. Finally the panel opens and he runs across the room, shoving his hands through the opening, fingers spread wide, reaching.

He can see the light on the other side as someone approaches, even through the blank wall. It's a vague person shape, a blur of color. This one is orange-pink, with flickers of muddy brown that grow deeper and darker as the person draws closer. He understands that as well; irritation and disgust. Someone who is doing a distasteful chore and isn't happy about it.

Hands close over his - they feel broad and enormous compared to his own. Relief rushes through him, nearly buckling his knees. He sags against the wall, holding on tight, cheek pressed against the cold tile. He can feel a rush of energy, filling the empty place in his chest, soothing the crawling, endless want. It's thin and paltry, nowhere near enough to truly satisfy, but he can see the glow on his skin brighten and shine in response anyway.

It feels like only seconds before the hands start to draw away. He clutches tighter, desperate. "No, please," he hears himself say - his voice is high and childish, but still recognizably Emma. "It's not enough, please, a little more. I'll be good."

But the hands pull away and the panel starts to close. He has to yank his arms back to get them out of the way. He bangs on the wall a few times; his fist is small, all of him is small. There is an overwhelming sense of helplessness. He wants to scream at them, to cry and beg. MacCready is caught up in it, overwhelmed with her feelings, unable to separate them from his own.

He winds up on the floor, curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his knees. Already the want is coming back, all the sharper for being so briefly eased. He can see his glow swirling with color, no longer the neutral gray. Jagged spikes of dark blue and crackles of white skate across his body. Then it settles, growing to a focused amber, dark red and glowing. It looks like the remains of a fire, but it's cold, this feeling. She _hates_ them, and he hates them right along with her.

The room fades, and for a moment, there is only darkness.

 _That's how it was,_ Emma's voice says. _That's how every day was. They'd give me a little, just a little. Just enough to keep me alive. If I wasn't in my cell, I was training. I had to train hard, to obey, to do everything they asked. If I wasn't good, they wouldn't come at all. They'd punish me for days without any contact. I learned to be good._

When the light comes back, he's on a gun range. The pistol in his hand feels familiar and comfortable. Targets pop up and he shoots them down just as fast. He's a little older now; he feels taller, more solid, but still so weak. His legs are unsteady. His head pounds with a merciless headache, spiking into sharp, icy shards of pain with every loud bang of the pistol. The weapon is heavy and his hands shake, but he makes himself focus. If he doesn't improve his score, there will be consequences. He can't go another day with no contact. He's already at the point where he can't keep food down, and if he gets much weaker, he won't be able to perform for their tests.

MacCready tries to remind himself that it's Emma feeling these things - it's not him. But fear claws at him anyway, desperation to do what they want, to be good. And under it, still that cold fire, that fierce and bitter hate.

Time speeds up in the memory - he gets a kind of montage of moments. Shooting at the range, at several ranges. Always indoors, in windowless rooms lit by harsh artificial light. There are some where he stands in one place and hits targets, and some where he has to navigate through a series of rooms and tunnels and fight from cover. Some where the targets shoot back - they are not bullets, but some kind of small beanbags. They still hurt plenty if he gets hit.

In between times at the range he is in the classroom. It is just another small, bare room, with a table and a single chair. There are books (clean and pristine, neatly printed, with no torn pages or burns), assignments, diagrams and pictures and tasks. Analyze this battle. Review this attack. Determine the appropriate small unit tactics to take this fortification. Identify weak points in this defense. There are lessons on medicine and logistics and basic engineering. All instructions come in writing, or are recited through a speaker in the wall. He is always alone.

The days flicker - he sees himself growing, time passing. There are days when his glow is dim and sputtering, when he's so starved he can barely crawl across the room to wait by the panel, hoping desperately that he was good enough to earn a little contact. There are days when he's stronger, but never truly well. There are usually injuries, various red and orange patches in his glow where he's still recovering from the last test. There is always pain. It is a background buzz, ever-present and unending.

There is another fade to dark, and then Emma's voice: _That went on for a while. Three or four years, maybe? I never saw the sun and they never turned the lights off, so it was hard to tell time. I got taller. Once I tried to make marks on the wall, to measure my growth and try to keep track, but they caught me. I didn't make that mistake again._

The light comes back, and he's in the cell. The door opens. She knows what that means, so MacCready knows as well. He is to go through the door and follow the hall. Usually this will lead him to the range or the classroom. This time, a different door is open, one he's never been through before.

The room inside is bare; there is a window set in the far wall, and on the other side of the window is another room, with a table and two chairs. He crosses to the window, trying to see more. The door shuts behind him.

A speaker in the wall crackles. The voice that comes through is altered, computerized. They always do that. "Wait in this room," the voice says. "A test subject will enter the room behind the glass. The test subject will be unable to see or hear you. Do not attempt to communicate with the subject."

He says nothing, waiting. It is crucial to listen to instructions and get it right the first time. Mistakes are not tolerated.

"The subject will be questioned. You are to observe and determine if the subject answers truthfully. Be prepared to give a full report."

It doesn't take long after that. Two men enter the room, one dressed in military fatigues and the other in jeans and a flannel shirt. The second guy is clearly the test subject. His glow is crackling with anxiety, yellow-white and swirling. The soldier is slate blue, the light cropped close to his body, held under tight control. Neither of them seem to know he's there.  
They are both very clean. The clothes look new and freshly washed. The men are clean-shaved, hair neatly trimmed and combed. It is jarring to MacCready, but he can feel that Emma is unsurprised.

 _It was the first time I'd seen a person up close in a while,_ her voice murmurs in his head. _The contact always came through the wall panel. In case you haven't realized by now, this is before the war. That's why everything looks so new. The world hasn't ended yet._

Before he can get his head around that one, the questioning begins.

"Do you have any ties to China?" the soldier asks. "What are your views on communism?"

He can see the fear bloom in the man's belly, the way it crawls over him in shivery waves. He knows the answer right away. The man denies, shakes his head, insists that he would _never_. He's a good man, a family man. A patriot. He loves his country. How dare they accuse him of such a terrible thing? They've got the wrong guy.

But MacCready knows better. They haven't got the wrong guy. The man's guilt is clear and obvious. In a sick way, he's glad. He knows that's what they'll want to hear. They love being right. His report will make them happy, and when they're happy, he gets what he needs.

Time blurs; there are more interviews. More test subjects. Some of them are civilians, suspected communist sympathisers. Some are soldiers, asked to betray anyone they know who may be a deserter. Some of them are criminals and killers. There is one in particular that makes his skin crawl and his stomach turn; there's something terribly wrong with his glow. He confesses eagerly under questioning, gloating in gory detail about his crimes. MacCready sees it all, the worst dregs of humanity, but even the criminals have some light in them. It makes him think of what Emma told him about synths - they're all just people, trying to survive, and sometimes making bad choices in the process.

There are times when he thinks they already know the answers, and they are just testing him to make sure he gives them accurate reads. Some of the subjects are innocent, but often, they're not.

Lies are so easy to see. The whole concept of lying seems strange and pointless in this context; why bother? But they all try anyway. Some of them are better at it than others. Over time, he sees the interviews as just another version of the gun range and the classroom. Another way to train and hone his skills. They are making him into a useful and obedient weapon, a tool they can use as they please.

But he is not obedient. He does as he is told out of necessity and it has been years since he stepped out of line, but he would kill them all in a heartbeat if he ever got the chance. He thinks they know it. They are very, very careful. And sometimes, if one passes close enough to his cell for him to get a read through the walls, he can see their fear.

The training continues, but something new is added. One day, when the wall panel in his cell opens and he sticks his hands through, thick cuffs close around his wrists. He goes still, waiting. Any struggle would be seen as a refusal to cooperate. Fear flickers through him and he bites it back.

The mechanized voice comes through the speaker in his cell. "Don't move. We will draw a blood sample. Contact will be provided after the sample is taken if you behave."

"Understood," he says.

The needle is a brief spark of pain, but there is always pain; he barely notices. Then the cuffs release, and there are hands wrapped around his. A different soldier, this time; the duty is rotated among many of them. The hands are smaller, softer - a woman. It doesn't matter. The glow is what counts, and this one is brighter than most. He soaks it up, pressing his whole body against the wall in an effort to get closer. They never give him any more contact than hands. It ends before he's ready. He doesn't beg anymore. It never works.

The world fades to black. Emma's voice comes again.

_I'm not sure what they wanted me to be. The combat training only makes sense if I was going to war, but they never let me out of the facility. And they had to know if they ever handed me a gun in the open, they'd be my first targets. Maybe they thought if they brainwashed me long enough, I'd be a good soldier. Certainly my abilities are useful in the field, we've seen that for ourselves. But I think eventually, they decided on a different approach._

The light comes back - he's in the cell. He hates it just like he hates the rest of this place. The bright white sameness of it, the four close walls, the empty blank space. It's impersonal and dehumanizing and cold.

The door opens and he plods through it. Maybe the range today, maybe an interview. Maybe something else. It doesn't matter. Despair drags at him, making his steps heavy, but he pushes through it. Hesitation is disobedience.

A new door opens at the end of the hall. He moves toward it. The room on the other side is small, and contains a wheeled hospital gurney. There is a table with a surgical tray, and a syringe sits on the tray, filled with clear liquid. He stops just inside the door, careful to keep his face blank.

Instructions come over the speaker, as always. "Lie on the bed. Inject the contents of the syringe into your bloodstream. Your medical training should suffice to allow you to find a vein accurately. Use the entire amount. Any deviation from orders will not be tolerated."

He climbs onto the gurney. There are metal cuffs at the end, spaced to fit his ankles, and more cuffs where his wrists would go. He doesn't use them, though; he wasn't told to.

For a moment, he considers not using the syringe. There's no way to know what's in it. Could be poison. But if they wanted to kill him, all they had to do was leave him in the cell and wait. He's a tool, a weapon. They wouldn't let that go to waste.

He finds a vein easily; the glow is brightest where the blood is close to the skin. The liquid stings going in, and fire races up his arm. He grits his teeth against the pain and makes no sound. They're always watching, always listening. He won't give them the satisfaction of knowing it hurts.

Dizziness chases the pain and the room spins. His breathing grows thick and slow and numbness creeps through his body. Fear clenches in his chest; he tries to hold on to the edges of the bed but his hands won't move. He feels very small and very alone, and then there is nothing.

When he wakes, he's back in the cell. His head hurts and his body feels heavy and dull. There is a new pain low in his belly and he can see the red tinge to the glow there; a fresh wound, but a small one.

He lifts his shirt and examines the skin. There are a couple new puncture marks, barely scabbed over. He touches one gingerly, wincing.

 _It didn't take long to figure out what they did,_ Emma says in his head. _I could see the spark start to grow. It was a medical procedure, not... not the old fashioned way. I think. Hard to say what they did while I was unconcious. But they wanted me to be an object, a thing, not a person. None of them would have touched me that way._

It takes him a moment to understand what she's saying, but then there's a time shift and he can see it for himself. There's his own familiar glow, pearly gray, but low in his belly there is something new, a faint point of light. It is tiny and changes color all the time, not yet settled into a core default.

It's a very strange feeling indeed. He's aware of a quiet sense of something growing, of new life, but at the same time, he feels sick and uneasy. Of course they wouldn't ask for his consent before doing this. They certainly never bothered with such niceties before, why start now? The deeper question is what they plan to do with it. Are they hoping his abilities are genetic, and any child he has will carry them as well? Maybe if they start younger, such a child will be more biddable, more easily molded. A better soldier. Maybe they are hoping for a boy, who could pass his genes on to many more. Or maybe it's all just an experiment, and they will take any child and use it, test it. Dissect it.

After a few weeks, it becomes clear that it's not going to matter either way. The light is fading. He is so tired all the time, so sick and hungry. They give him the same amount of contact they always have, but it's no longer enough. More of his own glow is going to sustain the tiny life within, and he has nothing left over. He becomes too tired to perform at his training sessions; soon he is too tired to even get out of bed.

He feels it when the light finally winks out; he knew it was coming, but oh, it hurts. The physical pain that follows is nothing in comparison. There is a lot of blood, shockingly bright red in the clean white room. His guts clench and cramp and everything hurts; his head spins and he clutches at the edge of the bed as if it might throw him off. Unconciousness is a relief when it comes.

The next time he wakes, he's been cleaned and the room is sterile once again. His body still aches dully, but other than that, there is no sign of what was lost. He puts his hands over his face and forces himself to be silent. They are always watching.

 _That was the first time_ , Emma's voice says. _But not the last. I tried to tell them I needed more contact. That I kept losing the pregnancies because my body was too weak to support them. They didn't believe me. I lost three more the same way before they finally started to listen._

Time slips ahead. He sees the gurney, the needle. The now familiar sensation of waking up in his cell with the fresh wounds in his belly. The tiny spark. By now, it fills him with dread. Losing each one hurts more than the last; he tries not to care, tries not to let himself connect with the small life, but he can't help it.

The panel in the wall opens. He rolls out of bed and crosses the room, sticking his hands through. The touch is warm and immediate. Broad, rough hands; a man this time. Another soldier, going by the glow. Green, bright and rich - Emma can't remember trees consciously, but she thinks of them anyway, and so MacCready does as well. The deep mossy green of a forest, so thick that sunlight doesn't reach the ground. This one doesn't have the tinges of disgust that most of them do; he's curious. Confused. Not sure why he's there, but following orders.

A voice comes over the speaker. "The door will open. You are to remain in your room. A soldier will enter. You will follow his instructions. Any attempt to deviate from instructions will result in the immediate suspension of contact privileges."

He blinks, startled. This has never happened before. They are careful to never be in the same room as him.

The speaker crackles again; the voice is impatient. "Confirm your understanding."

"Understood," he says automatically.

The hands pull away; he draws back as the panel closes. He turns to the door. He can see the same mossy green glow on the other side of it. When it opens, the soldier is standing there.  
He's tall, with dark hair and eyes. Broad shoulders filling out his military fatigues and a crook to his mouth that suggests an easy grin. He's not smiling now, though. He looks uncertain, wary.

"Uh," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "So I just... yeah, okay." He steps into the room. MacCready holds very still.

"Hey," the soldier says. "Okay. I have something I'm supposed to read." He digs in his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. He clears his throat. "First, you're not allowed to speak. You have to remain completely quiet." He grimaces a little and shrugs. "Uh, sorry about that. I'm not making the rules here, you know?"

MacCready nods. He's starting to suspect where this is going and his heart is a thundering rush in his ears.

"Right," the soldier says. "Rule two - all, um... contact is to be initiated by me, in specific and preplanned ways. You keep still and just let me do what I have to do." He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Look, it won't be anything bad, okay?"

The speaker hisses to life. "Do not deviate from the script, Sergeant."

The man hunches his shoulders, startled. "Yeah, sorry," he says. "Okay. Rule three. You are to notify me immediately if you detect potential health failures in the fetus." He pauses. "Wait, is she pregnant? Nobody mentioned that."

"You have your orders. Proceed."

He frowns, but nods after a moment. "Sure. Fine." He looks at MacCready. "I'm Nate, by the way. So, uh, nod if you understand the rules."

MacCready nods. He keeps his mouth pressed firmly shut.

"Okay," Nate says. "So, this is weird, but here goes." He peers closely at the paper in his hands, lips moving as he reads. Then he points at the bed. "Sit over there. I'm going to sit next to you. Make sure you don't move. Hands in your lap."

He obeys. Nate perches gingerly beside him, then puts an arm around his shoulders. MacCready is reminded once more that he is in Emma's body; Nate is so much bigger than him. He feels warm and solid, his arm a welcome weight. It is hard to keep still, to stop himself from leaning into the touch. Even this much is a balm, filling him with warmth and energy, soothing the sharp edges of the endless want.

It lasts longer than any contact ever has; maybe ten minutes. He can tell Nate is uncomfortable, that he feels weird about sitting in this room with his arm around a stranger, especially one who is clearly a prisoner. MacCready doesn't care. He soaks up every second, eyes closed, focusing on what he can feel. And it's working; his glow is bright and the spark in his belly is strong.

When the time is up, Nate hurries out with obvious relief, glad it's over. MacCready flops back on the bed and rests a hand on his stomach. He allows himself to feel a brief moment of hope.

Time slides forward; he sees the flicker of days, one much like the next. Nate comes every day, reliably. It's always the same; a few minutes sitting side by side, one arm around his shoulders.

 _This was the best time,_ Emma's voice says. _And I let myself be tricked. Nate was kind and I read more into it than I should have. Maybe it's just because I had been so alone for so long; I needed something to hold onto. Some one. He was just following orders, and he wasn't very happy about any of it, but I didn't see that. I think I had some kind of fantasy world built up, where he loved me and he loved the baby and we were going to escape all of this and be a family somewhere. White picket fence and all. But that's not what happened._

MacCready feels weirder as the baby grows - he knows rationally that it's not his body, and he's experiencing what Emma did, but the fact remains that the flutter of a baby kicking at his insides is not something he ever expected to feel in his lifetime. The longer he's in these memories, the more it feels like him living it and not Emma; he's lost track of the line separating them.

He knows the baby's name is Shaun. He's not sure if Emma told him that, or if he just knew. Maybe Shaun told him that. He already feels the connection, the spark growing into a strong and brilliant glow, blue like a winter sky. It's getting close to the end; he's tired and sore all the time and he feels ridiculously huge, but at the same time, he's terrified of what comes next. He pushes that thought away every time it comes; instead he thinks of holding Shaun for the first time, seeing his face. Touching his tiny hands.

There are regular blood tests all along; the wall panel opens and he sticks his arm through, and there is the familiar sting of the needle. They don't use the cuffs anymore. He is cooperative, because Nate always visits after a blood test and he is eager. Shaun is taking more and more of his energy and he needs the contact.

This time, something is different. The needle pinches and there is coolness flowing up his arm, followed by painful heat. He yanks his arm back. "What did you do?" he asks, staring at the puncture. His other hand goes automatically to his belly; Shaun kicks, agitated.

"Sit on the bed," the speaker says. "Resistance will be punished."

He sits. His head is spinning, arms and legs growing heavy. They've given him something to knock him out. "What's going on?" he asks. It no longer feels strange to hear Emma's voice when he speaks. "What did you give me? What's happening?"

There is no answer. He sways, then hurries to lie down. He doesn't want to risk falling and hurting Shaun. He puts both hands over his belly, holding on tight, afraid. Unconsciousness rushes over him in a black wave.

When he wakes, there is hot pain in a sharp line across his belly and his gut churns with nausea, but that doesn't matter. Shaun is gone.

He sits up fast, ignoring the spike of pain. The room is empty, his old familiar cell. He lifts his shirt and stares at his newly flat stomach. There is an incision wound and a neat black line of stitches. The skin is still loose and soft, but that clear blue glow is gone. The loss is tremendous and suffocating, a hammer to his chest, a black hole sucking him down. He puts his hands over his mouth to muffle a scream.

The room fades out. Emma's voice is low and sad.

_They wouldn't tell me anything. For the first few months, I didn't even know if he was alive. I tried everything. I begged. I demanded. I refused to cooperate until they let me see him. When that didn't work and they just starved me of contact instead, I tried being good. Better than good. I excelled. I beat every record at the range. I answered every question. I was obedient and perfect. Still nothing. The visits from Nate stopped. It was all back to the way it was before, like Shaun had never even happened. But he was real. I only had to look at the scar to know that._

The cell again. The door opens. He goes through it automatically. Everything is automatic now. He doesn't think, doesn't feel. It's all filtered through a thick fog of nothingness. His feet lead him to the interview room and he stands in front of the window, waiting.

The door in the subject room opens, and then the fog is ripped away with shocking swiftness. Nate walks in, and he's holding Shaun.

MacCready runs at the glass, pressing against it, pounding with his fists. "Shaun! Nate, listen! Can you hear me? Is Shaun okay? Let me see him, I have to see him. Let me hold him, please, please..." His voice trails off. They can't hear him. He presses his nose to the glass, drinking in the sight of his baby.

Shaun's glow is as bright as ever. He looks healthy, apple-cheeked and chubby, a wisp of dark hair on his head. Nate is clearly uncomfortable holding a baby but he's trying gamely enough, bobbing up and down a little and shushing him when he starts to fuss.

"Let me in," MacCready shouts, banging on the glass again.

"Control yourself," the speaker over his head says sharply. "You will be returned to your cell if you cannot behave."

He quiets, gritting his teeth. His hands are clenched at his sides and he watches every movement through the glass, every bit of Shaun's perfect, tiny face.

"Evaluate the infant," the speaker says. "Does he have the same aberrant traits as you?"

He shakes his head. "I can't tell that just by looking at him. I could get more if I touched him."

"That will not be allowed. Do not attempt to manipulate the parameters of this test. An answer is required. Is the infant like you?"

"I don't know," he says. "I don't look any different than anyone else. Shaun looks normal. He's healthy. He's just a baby." In the other room, Shaun squirms in Nate's arms, his face growing pink with effort. He waves his plump little fists, crying irritably. "He's hungry," MacCready adds. "And he's too cold, are you keeping him warm enough? Are you feeding him enough? Who's taking care of him? Why can't you just let me take care of him? Why can't I touch him?"

"Enough. Return to your cell. Your performance has not been acceptable."

MacCready ignores this. He presses closer to the glass, focusing hard, trying to reach Shaun. If his baby is like him, then maybe they can connect. Maybe Shaun will sense him somehow.

There's a hiss, and the room floods with pale mist. Dizziness washes over him and he crumples to the floor.

 _It was a while before they let me see him again,_ Emma says. _Nothing changed. It was always Nate holding him, but I don't think Nate was the one taking care of him day to day. They didn't have any connection and Nate always looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. I think they only used Nate because they knew how it would affect me, seeing them together. Bastards. Every time, I asked to touch him, to hold him. I promised I could pick up more information if they let me. I said I'd be good, I'd obey. But they never let me. I never got to hold him. Not once. I'm not sure how long it would've gone on like that, but we didn't get to find out._

He's in the cell, lying in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He feels the change in the air before he hears the loud clatter of boots running in the hall. He sits up, watching the glow approach. Many people, a confusion of colors and light, chaos outside his door. They are all afraid and it starts to seep into him, clutching cold fingers around his chest.

The door opens, and he stands, uncertain. A woman he doesn't recognize is there, wearing a lab coat and holding a pair of handcuffs. "Put these on," the woman says. "Come with me."

She throws the handcuffs and MacCready catches them. "What's happening?"

"You will obey or you will be left behind," the woman replies, and it's got to be her, the one behind the speaker. Her voice sounds different without the mechanical distortion, but the high-handed officiousness is exactly the same. MacCready goes blank-faced and calm. He slides the cuffs onto his wrists, but closes them only loosely. The doctor's glow is swirling with distraction and stress; she's not paying attention.

"Follow me," the doctor says, giving him a sharp look. "If you obey, you will see the infant. But only if you obey. Understood?"

She's lying. MacCready nods anyway. How can she possibly think she can get away with lying to him?

The halls are full of people. He's never seen so many at once; it's overwhelming and dizzying. He keeps an eye out for any glow he recognizes. Nate's mossy green would be welcome, but mostly he wants that clear blue that tells him Shaun is nearby.

The doctor leads him through the complex. Nobody pays attention to them. There is fear and panic everywhere, clogging the air, so thick he can taste it. The bright and crazy swirl of color is blinding. He struggles to keep up. People jostle him and he fights the impulse to turn, to lean into them. Any contact is welcome at this point; he's been so starved for so long. But he can't afford to slow down; he has to keep up with the doctor. She was lying about taking him to Shaun, he knows that, but she surely knows where he is. And he will get that information, one way or another.

They go up a seemingly endless set of stairs and then there is a heavy metal door. The air feels different here; it moves against his skin. After years of the chill, recycled air of the complex he's not sure what to make of this new warmth. The doctor taps a series of numbers into the keypad beside the door, and then there are the heavy, metallic thunks of locks unlatching.

When the door swings open, MacCready falls to his knees, unable to stay upright. The world is so _bright_. Emma doesn't remember sunlight, but she knows this is it. He can see life everywhere, green bushes and grass, the trees just starting to turn yellow and gold, the sun glinting off every surface. Wind washes over him, lifting his hair, carrying a million different scents.

"Come on," the doctor snaps. "On your feet. We don't have time."

They run down a suburban street. He glances behind him once; the door they came through looks small and unremarkable, like an entrance to someone's old storm shelter. It's hard to believe the whole complex was hidden under there. He's still barefoot - the road is rough and warm. He can smell fresh cut grass. The houses are pristine, intact, each one with lovingly tended shrubs and flowers out front. It's surreal and jarring and MacCready clings to the edge of reality.

A siren goes off overhead, and people start to spill out of the houses around them. More panic, more confusion. They all run in the same direction. He draws a few odd glances - a woman in hospital scrubs, running barefoot with her hands cuffed in front of her - but most don't seem to care. They have their own problems.

There's a bottleneck at a gate up ahead, guarded by armed soldiers. The doctor flashes some kind of ID at one of them and he lets them through. They run up the hill, MacCready stumbling over the uneven ground. It starts to look familiar; the path, the town below, the little stream they cross. When he sees the gear-shaped door set into the ground at the top, it all clicks. Vault 111, and Sanctuary. He knows this, but in the memory, Emma doesn't; she is overwhelmed by the emotions bubbling through the crowd and has no idea what is happening.

"Stand here," the doctor says, shoving him into the center of the gear.

"Where's Shaun?"

The doctor rolls her eyes. "God, you never shut up about that kid. He's fine. Safe."

"You said you'd take me to him if I followed you."

"Later. Be quiet." She turns and waves at a man in a trailer nearby. "Take us down!"

"We got more civilians incoming," the man yells back.

"Well hurry up then," the doctor growls. MacCready can see them coming, frightened people clutching at whatever handful of belongings they managed to pull together. They crowd onto the platform.

There's a bright, blinding flash and everyone turns. MacCready feels his jaw drop as the bomb goes off. He can see the bloom of the mushroom cloud, towering to the south. Someone beside him screams and he just stares, transfixed. The platform begins to sink into the ground as the shockwave rushes toward them; he ducks just in time as debris flies overhead.  
Then it's darkness; they're underground again. He hates it immediately. He thinks if he never spends another second of his life in an underground complex, that would be perfect.

They are prodded and jostled forward, men and women wearing Vault-Tec lab coats urging them on. The people around him are murmuring in shock and disbelief. He ignores them, focusing on the doctor. "Enough," he says. "Take me to Shaun."

The doctor must see something on his face, because she takes a step back. He slides one hand deliberately out of the cuffs, then the other. He lets them drop to the floor. "I won't ask again," he says.

"He's not here," the doctor says. "He's still at the lab. He'll be safe there, it's underground too."

"You're lying. You know that doesn't work on me."

The doctor's eyes widen. "I... I don't know. You're my subject. The kid belongs to someone else. Maybe they kept him there. Maybe they moved him. He could be anywhere."

MacCready eyes her consideringly. "That's true. You really don't know."

"Right," she says, relieved. "I just had to say something to get you here. You saw how close it was - we didn't have time to argue."

He nods. "So you're no use to me now."

Understanding dawns on her face a little too late. She lifts her hands, trying to ward him off, but it's useless. She's a doctor, a scientist - not a soldier. He kicks her legs out from under her and she goes down hard, crying out in pain. A couple of the Vault-Tec security guys shout in alarm. He ignores them.

He's faster about it than he'd like to be; he doesn't have much time and he knows it. He takes her by the shoulders and lifts her, then slams back down, her head hitting the concrete floor with a meaty thud. Her eyes go glazed and unfocused and her glow flashes dark red, but she's still breathing. He does it again, kneeling over her, fingers digging hard into her shoulders. People are screaming. He's screaming. None of it matters.

He beats her head against the floor until the security men haul him off, and he kicks and struggles, clawing at them. The doctor is limp and lifeless; he watches her glow flicker and then vanish. His lips draw back in a grim smile. He goes quiet.

Over his head, the security guys are having a frantic conversation with the Vault-Tec doctor. He ignores it. Instead, he closes his eyes and focuses, trying to reach out with his senses. Security is still holding onto him and that helps. There is still so much interference, so much confused life all around him. But there, at the edges of his range, he spots a familiar moss green - and a spark of clear blue.

He lurches away from the security men. They yell, chasing after him, but he's well-trained and fast. He pounds down a corridor, past a cluster of confused people, around a corner and through a sliding metal door.

Nate and Shaun are at the end, talking to another Vault-Tec doctor. Nate looks confused, scared; Shaun is fussing in his arms. MacCready freezes for a moment, and that's when the security men catch up to him. They tackle him to the ground; his chin hits the floor hard and a glassy wave of darkness washes over him.

When he comes to, he's locked inside a tiny chamber. He can see out the small window in the front, but pounding against the glass does nothing. Shaun and Nate are right there - _right there_ \- and he still can't touch them. He wants to scream in frustration, but he makes himself go quiet and listen.

"I don't know," Nate is saying. "They told me to come here. I don't know what's happening. They just handed me the kid and told me to run. It's not even my kid. It's _her_ kid," he adds, pointing to Emma.

"She's already proven to be dangerous," the Vault-Tec doctor says. "She just killed a woman by the entrance with her bare hands. She's violent. We're not about to hand her an infant."

Nate's eyes widen. "Seriously? She killed someone?"

The doctor nods grimly. "Look, we'll work this out later. Right now we just need to get everyone settled in. As I'm sure you can imagine, things are a little crazy at the moment. Just step into the decontamination pod and everything will be fine."

"Yeah, okay," Nate says numbly. MacCready pounds on the glass. The doctor is lying. They're all lying.

Nate steps into the pod with Shaun and the door closes. There is a hiss of cold air and he can hear a countdown. Then - everything goes white.

 _It's my fault, you know,_ Emma says. _If I hadn't killed that doctor, things might have been different. But I let my rage take control and blew my chance. If I'd just played nice a little bit longer... well. I guess I've always been a little too impulsive._

The next thing he's aware of is bitter cold, so deep that his bones ache. A mechanical computer voice sounds overhead: "Manual override initiated. Cryogenic stasis suspended."

MacCready fixes on those words, several answers clicking into place all at once. Cryogenic stasis. She really is pre-war. Over two hundred years old. It still seems unreal, even though he's literally just lived it.

The white fades, and he's looking through the window of the pod again. It's blurry, the glass thick with ice. He sees a man on the other side who looks much more familiar; more like what he's used to. An obvious merc, armored and dirty, wearing a heavy revolver on one hip. His glow is peculiar; patchy and irregular, with bits that look like the normal soft swirls of any human and other bits that seem more structured, with straight lines and angles. He's got some kind of scientist with him, wearing what looks like a hazmat suit.

They open the pod with Nate and Shaun inside. Nate coughs, leaning over, gasping and shivering. Shaun starts to wail. MacCready scrabbles at the glass; the sound of his baby crying is maddening. He's so close.

"What happened?" Nate asks. "Who are you? Where's the Vault-Tec guys?"

The scientist reaches for Shaun. "Come here," she murmurs. "Come here, baby."

"No," MacCready hears himself growl. "Don't you touch him. He's _not yours_. You get away from him."

Nate's dazed, looking around; he glances across at MacCready and then averts his gaze. "What? You want the kid?"

"That's right," the merc says, lifting his gun. "I'm only gonna ask you once."

Nate goes still, then quickly hands Shaun to the scientist. "Whoa, easy, there you go. It's not even my kid. I don't want any part of this. Just put the gun down, huh?"

MacCready pounds on the glass but his arms are weak; it makes only a dull thumping sound. He can't get his voice to work above a croak.

"Not your kid, huh?" the merc asks. "Interesting. So you're not gonna give me any trouble?"

"God no," Nate says. "This whole thing is a shit show. I never wanted to get wrapped up in it. The kid's mom is some kind of freak science experiment and for all I know, the kid is too. Just take him and let me go."

MacCready can feel this hit like a punch in the gut. In his head, Emma gives a rueful, humorless laugh. _Yeah,_ she says. _That was a hell of a wake up call. So much for my happily ever after._

The merc steps back, waving Nate out. Nate stumbles and staggers as he climbs out of the pod, then hurries away, casting a wary look over his shoulder. "Careful," the merc calls after him. "The world's a little different than you remember it."

"Was that wise?" the scientist asks. "You know how the director feels about loose ends."

"Doesn't matter," the merc says. "He won't last five minutes out there." He turns and peers into MacCready's pod. "At least we've still got the back up."

The cold rushes in again, frosting over the glass, and the world goes white once more.

  
_The next time I woke up, I was alone in the vault,_ Emma says. _You already know a lot of what happened next. I went to Concord, met up with Preston and the settlers. I've told you that part of the story. There's just one more thing I want you to see._

The next scene is familiar territory - evening in Goodneighbor. He sways on his feet, struggling to stay upright. He's gotten used to the different feel of being Emma, the way she often feels weak and sick, but this is far worse. Every joint aches like it's full of tiny glass shards. He feels brittle and hollow, like a strong wind might carry him away. Movement is pain, even breathing hurts. Still, something draws him on. He can feel the tug of it in his gut, some instinct calling him forward.

He drifts down the street, putting one foot in front of another with plodding, deliberate effort. He's left it almost too late and he knows it. His body isn't going to carry him much longer.

Despite his exhaustion, the closer he gets to the Third Rail, the faster he wants to go. He's starting to see it now; a kind of shine, brilliant white-gold like the sun. It washes warmth over his skin, beckoning him closer. He makes his way down the stairs, clutching at the rail for support, moving unseeing past the few patrons clustered around the bar. He registers dimly that Magnolia is singing, and that the light around her is different; more sharply defined, clean lines and structure instead of the wavering swirls around most people. But it doesn't matter. He's not here for her.

It's strange seeing himself from the outside. Through Emma's eyes, he can see so much. His glow is bright, russet gold and orange, like autumn leaves. He can also see worry, a tight clenched knot in his chest, whirling and snapping. Hunger has left a deep purplish bruise over his belly, the glow there sluggish and dull. He can even see the little red zigzag sparks of light around his eyes and along the back of his neck - apparently that's what a headache looks like.

The conversation replays as he remembers it; it's fascinating to watch his own reactions. Confusion, suspicion, wariness. They all chase across his glow in waves. When he finally gives Emma his hands, MacCready feels the relief from her side, the staggering wave of _yes oh yes thank you thank you please more._ The pain recedes beautifully, everything going loose and bright and he never wants it to stop.

 _Yes,_ her voice says, _it's always like that, in case you were wondering. Do you feel the difference? How much better you are than any of them ever were at the lab? I knew right away that you were the right one. You were the one I needed. I just didn't realize how true that was._ _I know I haven't always been the easiest person to live with. I let you in, and then I push you away. I open up, and then I get scared and run. Maybe now you see why. I don't know how to do a normal relationship. I see how you look at me; I see how you shine. I want that._

He sees a series of scenes, one after another:

A sniper lesson, and the pride he feels when she gets it right, the way he encourages her, his patience and the warmth of his hands.

A fight with raiders, and the way his glow grows steady and calm when he shoots, shimmering like the surface of a lake, cool and deep.

The little furrow that appears between his eyebrows when he's concentrating, thinking hard, his hand moving carefully across the page as he sketches.

The way he is around children, any children, a subtle shift to his glow swelling around him, lighting him up in a way that says warmth and safety and home.

A quiet moment on on the road, late at night when they're traveling and they take a few hours to rest. She's not sleeping, she's watching him, and he's watching her right back. The golden light courses over him in waves, everything he feels written like a neon sign, bright and clear.

And then: kisses, so many kisses. Each time, he feels the confusing rush of sensations that sweeps over her. Excitement and fear and wanting and wariness. She can see the way her own glow grows bright, mirroring his, but she's afraid. She wants more, he can feel the sweet, low thrum that runs through her body when he touches her, but at the same time she doesn't know what to do with that feeling. She has no frame of reference, no experience, no plan.

_Do you understand? Do you see?_

MacCready thinks that maybe he finally does.

_I know this was a lot all at once. If you need some time to think, I understand. I hope you'll come to see me. I'll answer all your questions. Nothing held back. I'm all in. Whatever you decide. I don't know what happens next, but I hope... well. I hope._

~~~


	18. AT LAST

When he wakes, the first thing he sees is the glass front of the memory lounger pod in front of him. It's too much like the cryo chamber and a bright jolt of panic seizes him. He beats at the glass, kicking and thrashing. It opens and he tries to climb out but nothing about his body works right. His hands are big and clumsy, his balance is all wrong, everything is off. Even the sound of his own breath rattling in his ears is strange.

He struggles, clawing himself out of the pod, and winds up spawled on the floor, shaking miserably, dizzy and sick. Someone touches his back and he flinches.

"Remain still, Mr. MacCready," Amari says. "Just breathe. You need to allow yourself to become accustomed to your own body again."

He groans, peering blurrily up at her, and another rush of fear washes over him because she's dead, she must be dead, she's walking around and talking and looking at him but she's got no glow, no light, just a blank slate of nothing. He shudders and looks away, but that's no good either because he can see himself, his weirdly shaped body, too narrow and too tall and utterly lifeless.

He presses both fists to his eyes and curls into a ball. With his eyes closed, the world vanishes. He can't sense anything. No perception of the life and people and feelings around him. There's just nothing. It feels like falling. His chest seizes up and his throat closes and he's gasping desperately but there's no air.

MacCready doesn't feel the needle, but he does feel the heavy warmth that spreads through him, easing the tight bands around his chest. He kicks out, dragging himself across the floor, away from the doctor. "Don't drug me," he growls, and his voice is wrong, it's all wrong. "Don't give me anything, don't you touch me."

"It's a mild temporary tranquilizer," Amari says. "Your heart rate was dangerously high. I'm trying to help you. Take a moment and think. Remember where you are."

He shudders and turns away from her. The floor is cool beneath his cheek and he tries to focus on that. On breathing. He moves his hands slowly, learning the shape of his fingers. He can feel the calluses from the grip of his rifle. The scar on his knuckle from that bar fight. He lifts his hand to his face. He can feel the scrape of stubble on his cheek. The sharp line of his jaw, the gap on the left side where he's missing two teeth.

"I'm, this is..." He stops, swallowing. "The Memory Den. Right?"

"Right," Amari says quietly. "Tell me your name."

He hesitates, but then it comes to him. "MacCready."

"Alright. Repeat that to yourself. Remember who you are. It's normal to experience some dysphoria after accessing another person's memories. There will likely be mnemonic impressions left over for some time."

He nods. He doesn't know all of those words, but he gets the gist of it. "Yeah. It's getting a little better."

"Take your time," she says. "And I would not suggest you attempt any kind of dangerous activities until you feel fully comfortable within your own body again. At least a few days."

He sits up, gritting his teeth through a wave of dizziness. Amari gives him a worried look. "I got it, Doc," he says. "No combat for a while."

"You should really just lie down," she says. "Give yourself time to adjust."

He shakes his head. "I have to go see Emma." He tries to get to his feet and promptly topples over, unable to balance.

Amari lifts one eyebrow. "If you insist."

"I'll get it," he says. He scoots across the floor until he's up against the wall, then uses it to lean on and work his way into a standing position. His legs wobble dangerously, but he makes it up. It's still weird to see nothing when he looks down at himself - no light, no color. It's like looking at a mannequin that has somehow started moving on its own.

He holds onto the wall until the dizziness passes. The first step nearly spills him to the ground again, but he catches it. He makes it across the room on sheer stubbornness. He even manages a faint, cocky grin for Amari. "See? Told you."

She nods. "I hope this was valuable for you, Mr. MacCready."

He regards her seriously. "It was. Thanks for your help. Um... sorry about freaking out on you a little."

A wry smile lifts one corner of her mouth. "You weren't the first, and you certainly won't be the last. Thank you for having the courtesy to not vomit on my floor."

That gets a small chuckle out of him. "Yeah, we'll see. I still have to make it up the stairs."

~~~

It takes all of his focus to stagger out of the Memory Den and up the street to the Rexford. Basic movement comes back to him pretty fast; he regains his sense of balance and his feet stop feeling weirdly big and heavy. But it's still so strange to look at all the drifters in the street and see nothing, no hint of how they're feeling, no touch of color or light. He feels as if the world is numb and muted, and some essential part of himself is missing.

The practical upshot of this is that he has no time to think of what he's actually going to say to Emma. No chance at all to process the incredible amount of sheer craziness she's just dumped on him. He stands at the door to their room, hesitating with his hand on the knob, completely unable to figure out what he's feeling.

The thing that pushes him through the door is the leftover echo of how alone she was in that lab. The endless, maddening need for contact and the way it was never, ever satisfied - until she met him. He can still feel it.

Emma is standing just inside, in front of the door. Because of course, she would have seen him coming. He shuts it behind him and stares at her for a long moment. She stares back.

When he opens his mouth, he's not entirely sure what's going to come out.

"Robert Joseph MacCready."

She blinks. "What?"

"That's my name. My full name. Robert Joseph MacCready. Long as I can remember, even as a kid, most people just called me MacCready. But a few people - the ones I was closest to - they got to call me Bobby." He takes a step forward, then another, closing in on her. "And you... I'm closer to you than I've ever been to anyone. So I'd say that counts."

She swallows hard and lifts one hand, reaching for him. Her fingertips are soft and warm, trailing over his cheek. "Bobby," she murmurs. He closes his eyes.

He's not sure which of them moves first, but she winds up pressed against his chest, her arms tight around him, squeezing so hard he can barely breathe. He fills his hands up with the feel of her, stroking her back and her hair and her shoulders, nuzzling into the warm pocket of air at the hollow of her neck, breathing her in. They stumble, staggering across the room, unwilling to let go for a moment.

The bed catches him behind the knees and they topple onto it, landing with a surprised oof and she laughs, the sound coming out with a slightly hysterical tinge. "You came back," she says. "You're still here."

"I told you," he mumbles. "Stuck with me now."

She makes a soft, choked off sound and nods, pressing closer. "I'm sorry," she says. "Doctor Amari told me you'd experience the memories like you were the one living them. That you'd feel everything I felt. I know it was awful."

"Yeah," he says hoarsely. "I don't... I can't even begin to... it's so much. And it _explains_ so much. You had to show me this way. I never could have understood otherwise."

"I'm still sorry," she replies. "For hurting you."

He shakes his head. "Worth it." He's quiet for a long moment; his head is still spinning with questions and confusion and the lingering echoes of the whole experience. He can't organize his thoughts. "What happens now?"

She takes a deep breath, wriggling a little to get more comfortable on the bed. He moves with her automatically, until they're side by side, curled together in a familiar embrace. "I know we have a lot to talk about still," she says. "There are more things I have to tell you. About the Institute, and Shaun, and why I need an army. But today... look, today has been one hell of a long day. I had to live through all those memories again to make the recording for you, and then you had to live through all of them, and let's face it, they are some terrible fucking memories."

He snorts. "Yeah, you're not kidding."

"Can we just... not, tonight? Can we put all that away for a while?"

"Yeah," he says. "I could use a day off."

She nods. "After all that remembering - I want to forget. I want to feel good." Emma turns, looking at him. "Can you do that, Bobby? Can you make me feel good?"

A slow smile spreads on his face; he can feel a curl of heat slide through his body, tingling across his skin. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Okay," she says; her voice is tight and breathless. Already he can see color rising in her cheeks, her eyes growing dark and dilated. "You know I... I mean, you saw. I haven't done this. The last time I tried anything with you, I went too fast, I got carried away, and then it was too much and I had to stop. I don't know the right way to do any of it."

"There are a lot of right ways," he says. "Tell you what - I know you usually like to be in charge, and wow, after seeing all you went through I totally get why, believe me. But just for this, let me lead, okay?"

She's already nodding, relieved. "Yes. Please. I trust you."

He has to kiss her for that. He's slow about it, deliberate. He holds her face in one hand, smoothing his thumb over the line of her jaw, and he opens her up a little at a time. It's a sweet and gentle tease, just the tip of his tongue along the lush curve of her bottom lip, pulling back when she tries to take more. He gives her a moment to take a breath, to settle, and then he kisses her again.

He finds himself fascinated by all the little sounds she makes. The stutter of her breath when he tugs her lip between his teeth, the way she giggles when his stubble tickles her neck, and the startled moan when he finds the sensitive place just below her ear and kisses her there, nibbling at the skin.

He takes his time, lingering over the arch of her collarbone and the thin, delicate skin of her throat. There is a spot where her neck curves into her shoulder that makes her shiver, and he sucks on it hard enough to leave a mark, the soothes it with wide, soft licks. She squirms, clutching at his shoulders.

"Oh god," she mumbles, hips shifting restlessly. "Yes please that's good Bobby, keep doing that, how is that so good? You, you have to, I need..." She trails off, one hand sliding down her belly. He catches her wrist.

"Ah-ah," he says, grinning when she makes a frustrated noise. "Patience."

"Easy for you to say," she retorts.

He squirms, adjusting his legs to try and ease the pressure. "It's really, really not. But I'm leading, remember? We go slow."

"Okay," she says. "Slow."

"Tell me what you like," he says. He kisses her again, deeper this time, and she moans against his mouth. "Tell me what you do when you touch yourself."

She draws in a startled breath and stares at him; a darker flush rises up her face. "I... I told you, this is new to me."

"You... what, really? I mean, I get that you haven't been with anyone else, but come on. Everyone flies solo from time to time."

She shakes her head. "They were always watching me. And I was always sick, anyway. I never wanted to. It was only with you that I started feeling alive enough to even think about it. And then... well, it's not like there's a lot of privacy."

"Wow." He traces one hand idly along the hem of her shirt, just skimming over the skin beneath. "Really? Never?"

"I... I almost did once," she admits, ducking her head. "At Sanctuary, after that first time I got you to sleep beside me without most of your clothes. You felt so _good_ , all that skin up close, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I felt like I was going to lose my mind if I didn't do something. I was in the bath house, and I started..." She trails off, looking away.

MacCready closes his eyes for a moment, unable to resist rolling his hips against the mattress. The pressure even through his pants is sweet relief, and at the same time, nowhere near enough. He muffles a low groan against her shoulder and kisses her again, licking into her mouth. "Don't stop now," he says. "Tell me what you did."

"I, um... I started with my breasts," she says, stumbling a little over the words. Her face is bright red; he can feel the heat from her skin. "It felt good, my, um... my nipples were hard, sensitive. It was hard to walk because my shirt kept moving, brushing against them, and it was like I could feel it all over."

"God, Emma," he mutters, and pushes her shirt up. She's bare underneath, and he kisses down the center of her chest, letting his chin scrape just a little, then following the touch with more soft touches. She shudders, twisting beneath him, pushing up against his mouth. "Like this?" he murmurs, and kisses one nipple, then the other, keeping the pressure light.

"Yes, oh like that like that yes," she says in a rush, the words slurring together. "Please do that again Bobby don't stop..."

Her back arches when he uses his tongue, slipping in a slow circle around the nipple, then licking directly over the firm pink tip. He opens his mouth and sucks gently, flicking with his tongue. She makes a high keening sound, one hand clutching at the back of his head, the other sneaking down between her legs. He catches it again and she moans, pulling his hair.

"I can't, I can't," she says, squirming and shivering on the bed. "Please, you have to let me."

"Shh," he says, and blows a thin stream of air over her wet skin. She gasps, trying to pull his head back down.

"Tell me what you did next," he says.

"Um, I..." She settles a little, her breathing growing steadier when he keeps to soft kisses along the curve of her breasts, avoiding her nipples. "I was trying hard to keep quiet. I didn't know what to do, just that it felt good and I wanted more. I kept picturing you. Thinking of you touching me. Of how it felt when you put your hands on me and our skin touched. I wanted to feel more of you."

He groans, rolling his hips until he can press up against her leg. "You are fucking killing me here, Emma."

She gives a wild, breathless little laugh. "Hah - you _do_ swear."

"Yeah, you got me," he says, and he can't help grinning. He twists, hauling his shirt off over his head, and then his undershirt. He pulls hers off as well, stroking his hands over her back, reveling in the soft feel of her skin.

"Yes, like that," she murmurs, turning and wrapping herself around him. He can feel the press of her breasts against his skin, the silky heat of her. It's decadent and heady, a sweet indulgence. She's rubbing against him like she can't get enough, her hands greedy and eager, and she kisses his neck, his shoulder, every bit of skin she can reach.

He allows himself three glorious thrusts against her hip, the friction of his underwear against his aching dick falling just to the right side of too much. Then he pulls back, biting the inside of his cheek to regain control. "What next?" he murmurs in her ear. "You said you _almost_ finished - what stopped you?"

"I used, uh... I used my hand," she says. "My fingers. I had to put my other hand over my mouth. I couldn't keep quiet. I started to rub, just a little, real light - I was so sensitive and so wound up and I kept thinking about you touching me like that. How your hand would feel. Or, mmm, or your mouth. Soft and wet and slippery and I couldn't, I couldn't handle it. It was all too much. I felt like I was rushing toward something and I guess I just got overwhelmed and I took my hand away at the last minute."

MacCready pulls her close, feeling her skin slide against his. "Want me to do that?" he asks, murmuring the words against her lips. "You want my hand? Or my mouth?"

She shudders; her hands go tight on his arms. "Yes, anything, yes. _Please_ , Bobby."

He mouths at the line of her collarbone and the curve of her breasts, and then goes back to her nipples. They're still tight, drawn up into little buds, and she moans when he kisses them. He goes back and forth, licking one, then the other, laving with broad, flat strokes and then flicking with the tip of his tongue. Her hips shift and roll, automatic and instinctive, pushing up toward him. He slides one hand down, over her belly and along the inside of her thigh.

"Like that?" he asks, then draws her nipple into his mouth and sucks gently. "You want me to touch you?"

"Pleasepleaseplease," she says all at once, whimpering. "I can't... I can't oh please don't stop."

He slides his hand a little higher, pressing through her jeans right where she needs it; she's hot there, wet enough that the fabric is damp, and she shouts wordlessly and bucks against him.

"Easy, shhh," he says, nibbling a little. "Let's just take the edge off, huh?" Then he presses with his thumb, rubbing until he finds the spot that makes her shake and arch up off the bed. It's just heat and pressure, stroking her through her jeans, but she's so worked up that's all it takes.

She moans long and low, and he watches her face, watches the pleasure flickering over it, the way her eyes go wide and hazy and her mouth falls open. He takes her through it, rubbing over and over, gentling the pressure until she settles back onto the bed, loose limbed and trembling.

"Oh," she says softly. " _Oh_."

"What does that look like?" he asks, smoothing her hair back from her face. "Can you see it in your glow?"

She nods. "All the colors. All at once, just for a few moments. So bright." She gives him a dazed smile. "I want to see how it looks on you."

He grins. "Oh believe me, we're nowhere near done."

"We can do that again? When? Can it be now?"

He laughs and nods, nuzzling her jaw. He nips just below her ear and she shivers. "It better be now or I'm gonna die of terminal blue balls over here."

She props herself up on her elbow. "What does that mean?"

"Tell you later. Right now, we need to lose the pants."

"Okay," she says brightly, and reaches for him. "Can I do this first?" Then she presses her fingers right against his dick through his pants, rubbing up and down firmly.

He flops back on the bed and his hips stutter, grinding up into her hand. "Holy _shit_ Emma," he groans. "Warn a guy, geez."

"It felt so good when you did it to me," she says, utterly failing to sound apologetic. "And I can see how bright you are here. In fact, I bet I could see what feels best just by your glow."

"I... okay, I feel like I should be freaked out about that but mostly I just really want to try it," he says. He glances down at her; she's got an intent, focused look on her face and she's already zeroing in on the sensitive crown of his dick, easing the pressure when the friction gets to be too much. She's rubbing in little circles, pushing harder and then going light, teasing and maddening.

"Seriously," he gasps, "pants. Off. _Please_."

He feels her hand tugging at his zipper and he should really clarify that he meant _her_ pants but you know, maybe a little later. She unbuttons and unzips and slips her hand right in; her fingers feel cool against his overheated skin.

"Just, um, just a little," he says, biting his lip. "You're doing great, I should've known the mind reading would come in handy for this."

"Your skin is so soft here," she murmurs. "And your glow is beautiful. I wish you could see it, Bobby. Lit up like a sunrise. All gold and peach and rose colored. And when I do something that feels good, it flares up like firelight."

He puts his hand over his eyes and thinks that she has the weirdest dirty talk he's ever heard. Of course she does. But she sounds so enthralled, so fascinated and delighted and just plain _happy_. "I thought about this," he blurts out. "I thought about you. I've wanted you for a long time. Guess you knew that."

"Mmm," she says. "That time in Hangman's Alley."

He nods. "That, um... wasn't the only time. Just the first one. I learned to be more careful about hiding it after that."

She snickers a little, then curls her hand around his dick and squeezes, giving him a long, firm stroke that makes his eyes roll back in his head. "Yeah, you really weren't all that careful. Sorry. I always knew. I just stopped teasing you about it."

"Wow," he mutters. "Well, that's embarrassing."

"I knew what you were doing, but not what you were thinking about," she continues. "Could you... tell me?"

"I..." He catches his breath when she rubs her thumb over the tip of his dick, catching the slippery pre-come there and sliding through it, slick and soft. "Not if you keep doing that."

"You made me tell you," she points out. "While you were being very distracting. It's only fair."

"I'll tell you what's not fair," he says. "You're still wearing pants."

"So are you," she points out. Her hand slides in a quick, steady rhythm, already learning what he likes - the little twist at the end, the squeeze right where it feels good, the firm pressure, the edge of friction, wet but not _too_ wet, just rough enough to feel it.

"That's, uh..." God, he can't think. His breath is rasping in his chest, his heartbeat a thudding rush in his ears; she's merciless and already pleasure is coiling in his belly. He can feel the echoing tug of it sparking across his skin, tingling in the palms of his hands and sending shivers up the back of his neck.

She leans up, kissing his throat, mouthing at the line of his collarbone. "Your hand felt so good," she murmurs, breath tickling his ear. "But I think I liked your mouth the best. When you were kissing me, licking me, it was like I could feel it all over. Does it feel good for you, if I do that?"

She doesn't wait for an answer. He feels her soft mouth on his chest, hot and sweet. She kisses first, then nibbles, and seems to read his response because the next touch is sharper, firmer. She finds his nipple and grazes with her teeth, a sudden shock of not-quite-pain that makes him gasp. She softens it then, licking at him, rubbing her lips over his skin.

"Emma, I'm, oh _jesus fuck_ I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that," he says. "And I want, I wanna, oh god that's good."

"What do you want?" she asks, then kisses him again. "Tell me."

He twists, one hand clutching at the blanket, his back arching. "I, I want to... oh oh oh like that just like that..."

And he meant to wait, he meant to stop her and hold off and spend more time focused on her, but he just _can't_. She squeezes and twists with her hand, her sharp teeth teasing at his chest, coaxing crazy spirals of sensation out of him and he can't hold on. He shouts something, mostly cursing and her name and possibly something embarrassing about how much he loves her, but what the hell. She knows.

When he finally manages to open his eyes, his chest and belly are a sticky mess and Emma is absolutely _beaming_ , just grinning ear to ear, and he thinks if he could still see her glow it would be blazing bright.

"Wow," he says, breathless. "What happened to me being in charge of this?"

She laughs and shrugs. "I wanted to see what would happen."

"Yeah? Like what you see?"

Her eyes darken and she slides close, then kisses him, warm and deep and hungry. "Oh yes. I want to see it again."

"Yeah, gonna need at least a few minutes," he mumbles. "But I have some ideas on how we can use that time." Then he turns, hands going to the waist of her jeans. She flops back, already pressing her thighs together, squirming.

He peels the jeans off, the underwear going with them. He takes a moment to shuck his own pants and shoes, and then he's faced with the sudden and overwhelming expanse of bare skin, Emma sprawled out beside him, flushed and eager.

He runs his fingertips down the center of her chest, then over her stomach. He follows the touch with his lips, trailing a line of kisses until he reaches her belly button. This close, he can see the silvery scar beneath it, a thin line, clean and precise. He rubs his cheek against the skin there, then kisses from one end of the scar to the other.

Emma makes a low, choked noise. He looks up at her. "Should I leave that alone?"

"No," she says. "It's alright."

He nods and kisses her again, lingering. "That was the worst thing," he says. "They did so many awful things, but that was the worst. Stealing him like that. Just drugging you and... and _cutting_ him out of you. Waking up and finding him gone..." He shakes his head and then closes his eyes, resting his face against her belly. "I know what loss feels like. But that was a _violation_. That was just monstrous."

She's quiet, and when he looks up again, she's got her hands over her face. His stomach drops and he scrambles up beside her, wrapping his arms around her. She clutches him, her breath ragged against his neck, her shoulders shaking.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, rubbing her back. "God, I'm an idiot. Way to ruin the mood, huh? I'm sorry, Emma, don't listen to me, I say stupid things."

"No," she says, "no, it's not stupid. It's _right_. You're right, that was the worst thing. And you understand. You felt it with me. It's... not just mine to carry anymore. You see?"

He kisses her forehead, slow and warm. "Yeah. I do understand. And listen, I know you blame yourself for killing that doctor, for losing control, but I'd have done the same. Absolutely. If I could, I'd go back and do it again."

That gets him a watery laugh. She nods, then sighs. "I'm glad you know that stuff. I'm glad I can talk to you about it. I'm tired of being alone."

"Yeah," he says. "I get that."

She shifts, sliding against him; miles of soft skin and fascinating curves. His hand rests in the dip of her waist and his traitorous dick gives an interested twitch. She leans back and looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Ignore that," he mutters, embarrassed. "Damn thing's got a mind of its own."

A little smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You sure? I thought we weren't quite done."

"You still want to?"

"If you do, yeah," she says. "I'm okay. I'm nothing if not resilient."

"Yeah, no kidding," he says. He kisses her, soft at first, sweetness and comfort like a moment of calm after a tough mission. She smiles against his mouth and curls closer.

"Hope you know I'm going to want to sleep like this from now on," she says. "Every chance we get." She stretches, wriggling, their legs rubbing together, her breasts soft against his chest, the firm curve of her hip brushing against his dick. She makes a low, satisfied noise. "Skin contact is _awesome_. And you're so warm, Bobby, you feel so good. Like I can soak you up for hours and still want more."

"Mmm," he says, a pleased rumble. "I like hearing you call me that."

"Yeah? What else do you like? You never told me what you were thinking about before."

"Not gonna forget that, huh?" He slips one hand down to the curve of her ass and squeezes gently; she gives a little jump and her eyes darken.

"That's right," she says. "You don't get off the hook that easy."

"Alright," he says. "At first, I thought about you in the bath house with me. All naked, like you are now. All slippery and wet. I thought about rubbing up on you, feeling your skin, and the way you'd want it. The way you love being touched."

She nods and shifts, hands clenching around his shoulders. Her hips give a little roll and he puts his hands on her, guiding her until he can feel the damp heat of her pressing against his thigh, riding him. "Yeah," he murmurs, "like that. I wanted to have you close, to touch you. I wanted to do anything you said. The first time, I wanted you so bad I lost it before we'd done much more than kiss and touch. I couldn't hold on."

Her breathing is starting to come in sharp little sips of air. She mouths at his shoulder, rubbing her cheek on the skin and whimpering. He can feel how wet she is, grinding against his leg, her body quivering with tension.

"The next time," he says, "I made myself wait longer. It was after we took out that Gunner base, and you told me you wanted me. I imagined kissing you all over. Your breasts and your hands and your belly. Up your legs, behind your knees, along that spot just inside your hip bone that I could see sometimes, if your shirt rode up. I wanted my mouth on you, to taste you."

"Oh god yes please," she mumbles, the words half-garbled. "Please do that, I've been thinking about it every time you kiss me, I love your mouth so much."

He moans and tilts his hips; he's half-hard already and the taut skin of her belly rubs him every time she slides on his thigh. "Yeah? Tell me what you want, Emma. Say it."

"Your mouth," she says, "your lips, the way you nip a little with your teeth. The way I can feel your breath tickle, and it makes me shiver. I... oh, I want, right there, between my legs, where you used your hand. It _aches_ Bobby, please, I want you to."

There's no way he can say no to that. He slides down her quick, pausing only to press a wet, sucking kiss to each of her nipples on the way. She whines low in her throat, eager, her hips lifting off the bed. He gets both hands on her thighs and pushes them apart, then mouths the line of her hip, where the skin is taut and thin over the bone.

She thrusts up instinctively and he pushes her back down, pinning her against the mattress. She makes a protesting noise that turns into a long, low moan when he licks her open, sliding the tip of his tongue right into her. She's already slick, hot and plump under his lips. He presses his tongue as far as it will go, lapping at her, and then slides up and finds the bud of her clit. He's gentler there, licking all around it in careful, steady strokes.

"Yes yes yes yes," she mumbles, her voice coming out high and helpless. "Please more more more I can't... oh it's so good, I want, there's, I need something..."

"I got you," he says, "shh, easy now."

" _Not_ easy now," she says, "don't you dare stop, please don't tease me, you - _oh oh yes."_

He grins, sliding his fingers out, then in again, rubbing firmly. She bucks and tries to push down on them. He mouths at her clit again, kissing softly, then sucking it between his lips and flicking with his tongue. She shudders and he can feel her growing tighter around his fingers. He finds a steady rhythm that makes her give a sharp little cry on every stroke, and then he adds a third finger. She presses up against his mouth and he licks harder, focusing in on her clit, adding a little edge of teeth.

"There there yes oh please," she says, the words all tumbling out at once. "Oh god it's even better than last time it's, _ah_ , I love your mouth so much right there there _there_..."

He can feel her come, her body rippling and clenching around his fingers, and his dick throbs where it's pressed against the mattress. Heat races over him and he moans against her, and she makes a keening noise as the vibration takes her that much higher. He takes her all the way through it, gentling his touch until she is trembling and oversensitive. Then he pulls back and presses a soft kiss to her belly, then her shoulder, then her cheek.

She leans into him, loose-limbed and pliant when he gathers her up in his arms. She gives a sleepy murmur and sighs, then kisses him. "Mmm," she says. " _Wow_."

He can help feeling just a little smug. "You like that, huh?"

She blinks dazedly up at the ceiling. "You know, I can always tell when people are thinking about sex. It shows up in the glow. I just never understood why they seem to think of it so often, but now... how do people ever do anything else?"

He laughs and kisses her again. She curls around him, running her hands through his hair and making pleased little murmurs against his lips. He rolls onto his back and pulls her on top of him, relishing the firm weight of her pressing him into the mattress. He feels surrounded in warm, soft skin, protected on all sides. He rolls his hips, thrusting up against her belly, and she rubs right back.

"I want to try what you did," she says. "Can I? With my mouth?"

He has to close his eyes and hold his breath for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I wouldn't mind that."

She giggles and then nips at his earlobe. "Well, I wouldn't want to put you out," she says. "I mean, if you'd rather not..."

"No, no, that's okay," he says. "I mean, your first time and all. I hate to have you miss out on the experience."

"So generous of you." She leaves a series of little bites down his chest, each one stinging and tingling.

"Yeah, you know, that's me, I'm just _ah ah ahhhh..."_ He shudders and grips the blankets with both hands, struggling to keep still as she licks curiously at the head of his dick.

"Just what?" she asks, blinking up at him, all faux-innocence. "I didn't quite catch that."

She licks him again before he can come up with an answer, then mouths at the tip, exploring with the same eager joy she seems to bring to everything. Her mouth is soft and hot and lush, sliding easily over him.

"I, I can't," he says, "you gotta help me out here."

"What do you need?"

He bites hard at the inside of his cheek, trying to focus, but she's relentless. The whole mind-reading thing has got to be cheating or something, it's totally unfair that she's this amazing the very first time she tries it. She's already worked out the most sensitive spot, just a little way down from the tip, where she can tongue at the foreskin and slide it around, rubbing and sucking with just the right amount of pressure.

"Can you hold me down?" he blurts out. "I can't, I'm trying to keep still and I _can't_ , could you please, I want, I want..."

Her hands clench hard on his hips, pressing him down against the bed; she's small, but very strong and the feeling of being so firmly, helplessly pinned sends a wave of relief and something else through him, some kind of quiet calm that reminds him of aiming a perfect shot. Tension runs out of him and he sags under her hands, then moans when she draws her lips down over him in a snug, slippery ring.

"Thank you, thank you," he mumbles; even his voice feels faraway. "That's so good, you're so good," and he's not even sure what he's saying but he can't seem to stop.

She hums, then grins when he shivers and twitches. She pulls back far enough to suck hard at the head, and she flicks her tongue back and forth across the tip in firm, rapid strokes. He keeps trying to thrust, his hips jerking instinctively up, but she's not letting him go anywhere and it is maddening and incredible all at once.

It doesn't take her long to figure out a rhythm; she can't take him very deep but she's inventive and curious and an astonishingly quick study. She keeps making pleased little sounds, like each new shudder and moan and gasp she can wring out of him is a personal accomplishment and she wants more.

He can feel everything rushing toward him, pleasure pooling achingly sweet in his belly, racing along his skin. "Oh, oh god, Emma wait, please, hold on," he manages to say.

"But you like it," she says, and then licks him again, rubbing with the flat of her tongue.

He groans and bites at his knuckles. "I can't... oh fuck I can't hang on much longer if you keep doing that."

"So don't," she says. "I want to see."

" _Ah ah_ please, I mean it, stop for a second, I can't..."

She pulls back, tilting her head in confusion. "But you were close, I could see it."

He puts a hand over his face and tries to catch his breath. "Yeah... oh _wow_ , yeah. And believe me, I really, really wanted you to keep doing that. But there's something else I want more."

"Yeah? What is it?"

He holds his arms out to her. She sprawls on his chest, nuzzling the line of his jaw. He gets his hands on her hips and steers her until he can feel her thighs snug around his dick. She's still wet and slippery there and he can't help the little shudder that goes through him.

"Oh," she says.

He looks up at her, then touches her face, stroking his thumb over her cheek. "We don't have to if you'd rather not."

"I want to," she replies immediately. "I want to try everything and it's all been wonderful so far. Just be careful, alright? Slow?"

"Slow," he agrees. "You stay on top. Be in charge."

She nods and wriggles a little, bending her knees and lifting until she's just above him. She rocks herself down and he slides against her, rubbing along the outside. Her eyes flutter shut and she gives a low moan when he thrusts up, skin dragging against her opening and her clit. She rolls her hips, slow and deliberate, one long stroke forward and then back.

"Oh that's nice," she murmurs, and presses down a little harder. The pressure and the wet slide of skin are already getting to him and he clenches his fists until his fingernails dig into his palms.

"Em, Emma, please," he says, " _Please_ , you're killing me here."

The grin she gives him is downright diabolical. She lets a little more of her weight rest on him, pressing his dick firmly between his stomach and the hot skin between her legs. She grinds in a circle, biting her lip when she gets the angle just right. She starts making tiny, focused shifts with her hips, rubbing her clit right up against the ridge of his dick, and her hands come up to her breasts, squeezing and rolling her nipples. She tosses her head, arching her back.

He stares at her hands on her breasts, at the line of her throat, the way he can see her swallow and gasp for breath, the heady pink flush that creeps up her chest and darkens her face. Then he has to shut his eyes tight and grit his teeth when she rolls her hips again, sliding up and down against him. "Oh my _fucking god_ ," he mumbles, his voice coming out high and pleading. "I can't, Em, I can't, I'm gonna lose it."

"So bright," she says, "I want that, I _want_ it. I want _you_ , Bobby."

He just thrashes on the bed, making a high whining noise in his throat. She lifts up, then he feels her hand positioning him, and when she sinks back down he slides into tight wet heat, snug around his dick. He arches up, hips lifting off the bed, and shouts.

She plants her hands on his chest, holding him in place, and keeps right on working her way down a little at a time, slow and torturous and _fucking incredible_. He can feel every bit of her, every little shift and ripple and clench, every time she squirms and shivers. He's panting for breath, his head spinning, fingertips tingling. Everything is centered in that one brilliant point of sensation and he can feel himself losing control.

" _Oh_ ," she says, a low and wondering murmur. She slides the last little bit all at once and moans, rocking on him, grinding her hips.

He just whimpers and bites at the side of his hand. She lifts a few inches, then slides back down, making a startled little cry as she bottoms out. Then she does it again, but faster, shifting her angle until she finds something that makes her shudder and gasp.

"We, oh," she mumbles, "we should've done this first, this is the _best_ , I can see you, I can see your glow _in me_ , Bobby it's so _good_." She still has one hand on her breasts, rolling and squeezing her nipples, but she reaches down with the other and rubs her clit, then moans, high and loud.

Some part of him thinks he should be helping, should be touching her, but it's everything he can do just to hold on a little longer, just a little more, the pleasure lighting up his spine like electricty, bright and hard and overwhelming. "Oh god, please tell me you're close," he says, "I can't, I have to, _please_..."

"Yes," she hisses through clenched teeth, "yes, right there, do it, I want you to, let it go."

She lifts up once more and then slides down hard and fast and just stays there, clenching tight around him in shuddering waves, her body quivering and taut and she cries out and he can't hang on one more second. He grabs her hips and yanks her up with a frantic burst of strength, pulling out just in time to come hard against her stomach. It goes on until darkness swarms at the edge of his vision and tears form in his eyes, and then she rakes her fingernails down his back, driving one more deliciously sweet aftershock through his body.

Then he collapses on the bed beside her, his limbs flatly refusing to cooperate any further. She's panting and limp, lying in a sweaty, sated sprawl. He flops one arm over her back. His face is squashed against the mattress and his leg is twisted awkwardly but it's still a long moment before he can make himself move.

He rolls onto his side, facing her. She cracks one eye open and gives him an exhausted smile. "Hi," she murmurs.

He smoothes her hair back, tucking some behind her ear. "Hi."

She regards him seriously for a long moment. "Thank you."

"I don't know if you noticed," he says, "but I enjoyed that too."

She gives a soft laugh. "Yeah, I noticed. I kinda feel sorry for anyone who has the room next to ours."

"Eh, whatever," he says, shrugging. "That's probably what passes for free entertainment around here."

"Hmm." She leans in and kisses him with such tenderness that he has to swallow and take a careful breath. "I mean it, though," she says. "Thank you. For all of this. For being willing to take that crazy trip in my head, and for coming back afterward. For making me feel so good, in so many ways."

He's not sure how to answer that and his first instinct is to deflect, so he grins and says, "Hey, all part of the service. I aim to please."

She doesn't answer; just looks at him.

He sighs and glances away, then meets her eyes. "Sorry, I... this is going to take some getting used to. The whole honesty thing is kinda new to me. But you can see, right? You can see how I feel?"

"Yeah," she says softly. "I can see. But I know you can't, so - I love you too. In case you were wondering."

He closes his eyes and leans in, tucking his face into the hollow of her neck. Her hand cradles the back of his neck, fingertips sifting through his hair, soothing. "Yeah," he says. "I was wondering."

She kisses his temple. "Well. Now you know."

He nods, but doesn't answer. The day is catching up to him all at once, sleepiness making him feel heavy and loose and warm. Emma is right there, a familiar and comforting presence, and that is enough.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is not even close to over.


	19. Filling In the Gaps

MacCready wakes up to an empty bed, and for a moment he is back in that blank white cell, waking up alone day after day, year after year, to the same empty nothing. His stomach lurches and cold sweat pops up on his skin. He sits up and scrubs his hands over his face, taking careful, measured breaths.

It's the Rexford, of course, not the lab - he can see that same familiar mystery stain on the wall and the same ratty old mattress as ever. He knows that rationally, but his heart is galloping and he feels cold all over. He throws his feet over the edge of the bed and tries to stand, but his legs are the wrong length and he thumps back down on the bed in a clumsy heap.

He closes his eyes for a long moment. The feeling of being in the wrong body passes more easily than it had the day before, but the low pulse of dread curled in his belly lingers.

Then there are warm hands on him, smoothing over his shoulders and wrapping him up, stroking his back. He turns toward Emma blindly, burrowing closer, relief rushing through him.

"Sorry," she says. "I didn't realize you were awake - I had to go wash off. I was all sticky."

He manages a laugh. "Yeah, that'll happen."

"Are you okay?"

He nods. "Yeah. Just had a... I don't know. Flashback, or something." He looks up at her. "Kinda explains why you don't like waking up alone."

"Ah," she says. "That. Amari did say there would be some after effects."

"She wasn't kidding," he murmurs. "I'm alright now. But I think it would be a good idea to take it easy for a few days."

Emma gives him a crooked grin. "Definitely. We should spend more time in bed." Then she peers down at the mattress and blanket and wrinkles her nose. "Maybe not _this_ bed, though. Wow. That's kinda gross."

"Try not to think about it," he advises. "Especially since I'm pretty sure they don't have much of a maid service around here."

" _Ew_ ," she mutters. "Okay, you go clean up. Use a lot of soap. I'm going to see if I can get any clean sheets from the front desk."

"Alright, but this is like my third bath this week," he says. "I'm not sure I can maintain these high standards forever."

She rolls her eyes and gives him a little shove toward the bathroom. "Go on. You smell."

He laughs and gets up. "Wow, and just like that, the romance is gone. So much for the honeymoon period, huh?"

She catches him by the arm and tugs him around, then takes his face in both hands and kisses him, sweet and deep and full of promise. "How's that?" she murmurs, and nuzzles his jaw. "Romantic enough for you?"

"Yeah," he says, a little breathless. "That'll do."

~~~

It takes him a while to clean up. He even takes the time to shave and carefully trim his beard. He considers cutting his hair as well; it's getting a little long and slopping over his forehead, but he decides it can wait a little longer. Emma seems to like running her fingers through it.

When he comes out of the bathroom, shivering and damp, Emma is stretched out on the freshly made bed. She smiles at him and holds out a hand. He jumps into bed with her and burrows under the blankets, curling close and trying to soak up her heat.

"You are _always_ cold," she complains, but she lets him in easily enough, warm hands running over his chest.

"You keep making me get undressed," he points out. "It's like you're on a campaign to get me naked as often as possible."

"Ah, you caught me." She kisses his jaw and makes a pleased hum at the smooth skin. Then she pulls back; he watches her smile fade. "We need to talk."

He swallows a sharp burst of unease. "Yeah? Something wrong?"

"Not wrong," she says. Then she frowns, tilting her head to one side. "Why are you suddenly so nervous? There's this dark knot right over your chest."

"Uh, it's just that traditionally, the words 'we need to talk' are what you say when you're about to break up with someone."

Her eyes widen. "Oh! No, that's not... no, Bobby. Never. Sorry, I think I missed a lot of whatever happens when you grow up and learn how to act like a normal person in a relationship. Are there other rules I should know about?"

He shrugs and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. "I'm not exactly an expert either. There was only ever Lucy. But I guess we should agree that this is, you know... official?"

"What does that mean?"

MacCready shifts awkwardly, trying to figure out how to say it. "That it's just us. I won't be with anyone else and you won't either. I mean... that's what you want, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," she says, as if she's surprised he even had to ask.

"Okay, good," he says. "Me too." He gives her a wry smile. "I think that pretty much covers it. But you said we needed to talk about something?"

She nods, then settles more comfortably against him. "I showed you my life before the war," she begins. "But there's still a lot that happened between waking up in the vault and meeting you. Some of it you know - Preston and the Minutemen, becoming the general, building my settlements. But there are a few important pieces missing."

He touches her face, brushing his fingertips over the curve of her cheek. "Shaun."

"Yeah," she says. "Shaun." She sighs and closes her eyes for a moment, leaning against his hand. "At first, I didn't care about the settlements, or the Minutemen, or Preston. Or any of them. I had no interest in helping them. I just wanted Shaun. As far as I was concerned, they weren't my problem, and unless they were helping me find my baby, I wanted nothing to do with them."

"I can understand that," he says.

"I know." She gives him a sad smile. "I had to be practical, though. I had no way of knowing where he was, I had no weapons or food or supplies, nowhere to live. I walked out of that vault with nothing at all. So at first, working with Preston was about staying alive. And pretty soon, helping settlers was about keeping Preston happy enough to stick with me, to allow me the contact I needed."

"Did you have any leads? Maybe anything in the vault records?"

"Nothing useful," she says. "As far as I can tell, we weren't even supposed to be in there. When the bombs fell, it was chaos. The vault was set up as an experiment; they were always going to freeze the residents, and leave them frozen. We were just lumped in with everyone else. It's sheer luck that Nate and Shaun wound up there with me in the first place."

"Vault-Tec," MacCready mutters. "That's what they do, treat people like lab rats."

She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I'm alive today, here with you, because of them, whatever their intentions. At least they didn't lock me in a cell and experiment on me."

"Yeah, fair enough," he says. "Better than those bastards at that lab you were in. Did you ever find out what they wanted?"

"I'm coming to that," she says.

"Go on, then, I'm listening."

"There was someone with the Quincy survivors," she continues. "She's still at Sanctuary now, but I don't know if you met her. They all called her Mama Murphy."

"I don't know," he says. "I met a lot of people at Sanctuary. Maybe?"

"You'd remember if you had," she replies. "She's got something. Not like what I've got, but something. I could see it in her glow, and I knew it the first time she talked to me. She knew I was from the past, and she knew I was looking for my son. She's also the one who told me I'd find what I needed in Goodneighbor, by the way. I've still got to thank her for that."

"Wow," he says. "So there are more people out there with... what, like magic powers?"

She laughs, shaking her head. "Not magic. Just something extra. Something different. These days we've got ghouls and mutants, giant bugs and two-headed brahmin, synths and who knows what else. Why not a few people with some unusual abilities? The world is a weird place. Anything is possible."

"Well that's true," he admits.

"So anyway, Mama Murphy knew I wanted to find Shaun, and she told me I should start in Diamond City. I met the mayor and convinced him to tell me who I should talk to about a missing person; he pointed me toward the local detective, Nick Valentine."

"Oh yeah, I've heard of Nick," he says. "A synth, but an old one, not like the human-looking ones."

"Right," she says. "Of course, he wasn't at his office. He'd gotten himself locked up in a different vault by a bunch of triggermen and his secretary sent me to go rescue him. She failed to mention he was a synth. Gave me quite a suprise."

"What did he look like?" MacCready asks. "I mean, his glow. Did he look different?"

" _Very_ different." She smiles and shakes her head. "I've seen plenty of the new synths that look like people, and quite a few of the mechanical ones with all the wires and metal, but Nick was something else entirely. He's got a synth glow, all straight lines and simple colors, and then on top of that he's got a human glow, faded and thin, but still there. It's like two people in one body."

He gives a low whistle. "Yeah, that's weird."

"I like him, though," she says. "He was kind, and he genuinely wanted to help me find Shaun. Of course, he also wanted to ask an awful lot of questions about me, and why we were there in the vault, and who Nate was."

"And you hate questions."

She gives him a rueful smile. "He even asked if I thought Shaun's father might have snatched him. Apparently that's a common thing when a kid goes missing - it's often the other parent. So I had to tell him I have no idea who the father was, except that he was almost certainly dead and I didn't want to talk about it. I was starting to get upset just thinking about it and I think he assumed I'd been... you know, that someone had hurt me and I'd wound up pregnant as a result. Which, yeah, is basically what _did_ happen, but not the way he was thinking. He got really sad and his secretary tried to hug me. It was awkward."

MacCready isn't sure what to say to that. He just squeezes her hands, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. She takes a measured breath and squeezes back.

"Anyway. We started making progress when I described that mercenary who was in the vault. You remember? The guy with the weird patchy glow and the big revolver. Turns out his name was Kellogg, and Nick recognized him from the description because he'd bought a house in Diamond City. And he had a ten year old boy with him."

"You think that was Shaun?" he asks. "I mean... Shaun was just a baby, not a half-grown kid. But I guess, if they froze you again after they took him, then maybe it could have been him?"

She sighs and spreads her hands. "I'm not sure. Kellogg wasn't in the city anymore, but we managed to track him all the way across the Commonwealth to an old military base to the west. Fort Hagen. He was holed up there with a bunch of synths protecting him."

"Wait, protecting him?" MacCready asks. "So he's working for the Institute?"

"Looks that way," she says. "They were all taking his orders. And when I finally had him in front of me, face to face..." She trails off, frowning.

"What?"

"You saw him in my memory," she says. "The way his glow was strange. Bits of him were not human. It was like he started out as human, but had synth parts added, and they carried their own signature into the mix. Well, when I faced him at Fort Hagen, he was even stranger. There was barely any human left, and what he did have was faded. Old. Glow shows age, you know. And he was far older than any human should be."

"Maybe that's a sign that the boy he had was Shaun," he says. "I mean, if it had been ten years since you saw him, he could've gotten more work done, and he'd be older."

"Not that much older," she says. "It was more than ten years. A lot more."

"So... what does that mean?"

"I don't know." She looks down at their joined hands, biting her lip. "Maybe I'm wrong, and I was just thrown off by all the mechanical parts. I've never seen a person like that before. Maybe it was interference. Maybe I was losing my ability to focus and see clearly; I was already pretty starved for contact by that point, and getting worse all the time. What I do know is that I told him to give me Shaun, and he said he couldn't, because he'd already taken him to the Institute. And he wasn't lying when he said it."

MacCready winces, his stomach sinking. "Emma... god, I'm sorry."

She nods, her mouth pressed into a grim line. "Yeah. But that's not the end. I guess he knew we were done talking, because he tried to attack me. That was a tough fight."

"You killed him." It's not a question.

"Oh yes," she says. "And I'd do it again."

"Good."

She huffs out a humorless laugh. "It did turn out that way, actually. See, one of his synth parts was in his brain. I took it with me - not sure why. Morbid curiousity, maybe. But when I talked to Nick about it, he told me about Doctor Amari, and the memory den. That was how I got the idea to show you my memories; we used the machines there to see Kellogg's memories. Bits of them, anyway."

"Weird," he says. "What was that like?"

"Not like what you experienced," she says. "Because we only had a part of the brain and Kellogg was dead, we had to use Nick as kind of an interface. So Nick was the one living as Kellogg; I was just there as a third party observer. I could watch from outside but not interact with anything. So it wasn't like being him, but everything I saw was what he saw." She pauses, looking up at him. "It was the first time I'd ever seen the world the way most people do - without glow, without all the extra senses I have. It was awful. Everyone looked hollow and flat and empty. Nothing was real."

"Yeah," he says. "I remember how it felt when I first woke up from your memories. I looked at Amari and I thought she was dead because I couldn't see her glow."

"Exactly," she says. "And that means when we got to his memory of the boy, I couldn't really _see_ him, you know? If I could've seen him with my own eyes, I'd know if it was really Shaun. Glow is like a fingerprint, like DNA; it doesn't change, and it can't be faked. But all I saw was this shell; in the memory, his name was Shaun, but was it really him? I don't know for sure."

"Still, we've got to try to find him," MacCready says. "It could be the real Shaun. You said Kellogg wasn't lying about giving him to the Institute."

"Oh, I'm not giving up," she says. "Kellogg's memories gave me my next lead - an ex-Institute scientist named Brian Virgil. Hiding in the Glowing Sea."

"Oh, man," he mutters. "Seriously? Nothing could survive out there."

"That's the idea," she says. "Someone who defected from the Institute has a giant target on his back. He's out there for a reason. But he's also the only one who can help me find a way in."

"So what's the plan?"

"Build an army," she says. "That's the plan. I can't search the entire Glowing Sea for one man on my own, and I certainly can't destroy the Institute on my own. And I do absolutely want to take them down."

"Because they took Shaun?"

"Partly." She looks away, expression distant for a moment. "When I got out of the vault, the first place I went exploring was back in the old lab complex. The place they kept me all those years. I thought there might be some answers there. And I hated going back in, but it was mostly destroyed anyway. I couldn't get very deep; a lot of the tunnels and rooms were collapsed and filled in with dirt decades ago."

"You found something, though?"

"Something," she says. "Enough to trace their origins back to the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. The lab was a separate government-funded research branch, working to create 'products' for military use. I was one of their potential products. Shaun was another. Ultimately, the Institute grew out of the remains of CIT, and they haven't changed their ways. Everything I've heard about them, every record I've found, says they still experiment on people. They're still playing god, toying with lives to serve their own ends."

MacCready nods slowly. Her hands have curled into tight fists and he strokes her back until she sighs and leans into him, unwinding a little. "Okay," he says. "I'm on board. We find a way in, save Shaun, and blow the rest of them to hell. I'm with you."

She pulls him closer and kisses him, smiling against his mouth. "Thank you, Bobby," she says. "I'm glad. Because I'm definitely going to need you."

~~~


	20. New Friends

They spend several days in Goodneighbor, and for most of it, they don't leave the Rexford. In theory, they are giving MacCready time to rest and recover from his trip in the memory den. The reality, though, is that neither of them are much interested in resting. Emma is endlessly curious; she wants to try everything, to see his reaction to every kind of touch, every sensation. And when they aren't doing that, they talk.

She has an uncanny ability to draw the truth out of him. Maybe it's because he knows he can't lie to her, or maybe it's because he's seen so much of her, actually lived a piece of her life, but he feels safe being completely open with her. He winds up confessing to things he's never told anyone. He tells her about the awful jobs he'd pulled for the Gunners, and for other mercenary outfits. He talks about how worried he is about Duncan, and how he still grieves for Lucy. He even talks about his time in Little Lamplight, and what it was like growing up as a child with no parents, no adults. That strange sense of freedom and abandonment all tangled together.

After a lifetime of wariness and mistrust, it's a relief to spill everything. To know she has seen all of him, even the parts he's ashamed of, and she's still there.

Eventually, they have to leave the room; they're running out of food. They stop for lunch in the Third Rail, and it's kind of weird being back there again. It makes him think of the first meal he shared with her in that same room, not so long ago. She meets his eyes across the table, and he gets the feeling she's thinking of the same thing. A little smile dances at the corner of her mouth, and she holds out her hand. He laces their fingers together.

"So," he says. "What's next? Back to Bunker Hill? We never did finish making connections there."

"Maybe," she says. "I do think that's an important alliance to make, and I probably will end up there at some point. I'm also thinking about going back to the Castle for a while. It's been some time since I was there in person. I don't want them to forget about me."

He snorts. "Not likely."

She grins and squeezes his hand. "Last time I was there, I worked with this woman - Ronnie Shaw. We dug into the old armory and found some supplies, plus the blueprints for artillery."

"Wow," he says, raising an eyebrow. "The big guns. I like it."

"I thought you might. Problem is, the plans were pretty beat up. Turns out paper doesn't do real well if you keep it in a dank basement for a few decades. She was working on filling in the gaps, trying out some designs to get them working. She's supposed to notify me over the radio when they have something ready to go, so I can start getting supplies and building them large scale."

"You don't already know how to make them?" he asks. "Seemed like your training at the lab covered a lot of weapon design."

"Personal weapons, yeah," she says. "And even some larger scale turret defenses. That's why I can improvise so many weapon modifications with junk. But artillery is seriously old-fashioned stuff, even two hundred years ago. In my time, the military had already moved on to energy weapons, mini-nukes, power armor, that kind of thing. I never got any training on it, and Ronnie is the real expert. I figured I should let her work. She's not the type who appreciates supervision."

"Sounds like you guys have that in common."

She nods, giving him a wry smile. "Exactly. And really, I know if I go there and try to check up on her, she's not going to love it. I guess I'm just anxious to start building them. Can you imagine how effective we'd be with artillery in every settlement? Those things have tremendous range. We could call in a strike just about anywhere."

"Death from above," he says. "Not exactly precision work, but yeah, I could see taking out a super mutant nest or a bunch of raiders all at once. Would be a heck of a show."

"You do love blowing stuff up," she says. "I guess we shouldn't go there just yet, though. Wait until she gets in touch."

"So does that leave us back to Bunker Hill?"

She frowns thoughtfully. "I guess. I just feel like I'm missing something. So many people in the Commonwealth are afraid of the Institute. There's so much paranoia and anger; always this fear that people will just disappear. And yet nobody has tried to fight them? To stand up to them? Nobody has even tried to figure out where they are?"

"Well, there's the Brotherhood of Steel," MacCready says. "You saw that big airship come cruising in a while ago, right? I don't know what they're doing in the Commonwealth, but they pack some serious firepower."

"Yeah, I saw them," she says. "Hard to miss. I even met a few of their ground troops. I'm not a fan, though. They're awfully quick to hate everyone who isn't just like them. Far as they're concerned, all synths and ghouls should be exterminated. It's kind of funny, seeing as they've got a few synths among their ranks already, and apparently they haven't noticed."

"Really? The Institute has already infiltrated them? That's... kind of scary, actually. They haven't been here that long."

She shrugs, spreading her hands. "Yeah, I'm not sure how they managed it, unless the Institute has some ability to reach beyond just the Commonwealth. I mean, I guess they could. All I know is that the guy I met at the Cambridge police station is a synth, but I don't think he knows it. The way he was talking about them, he's going to have one hell of a painful wake up call if he ever finds out."

MacCready glances around; they're in the corner of the room, and they're keeping their voices low, but this still isn't a conversation they should be having in public. "Maybe we talk about this later?" he says.

Emma takes his meaning, nodding. "Come on. Let's go back to the room - if we're going to travel tonight, we should get some sleep."

MacCready chuckles. "Yeah, I'm sure that's what we're gonna do. Sleep. Right."

"You complaining?"

"Nope," he says brightly. "Sleep is overrated."

She smirks and pulls him to his feet. He can feel a simmering spark of anticipation already growing in his chest and he follows her eagerly up the stairs. They make it across the street and then she abruptly pulls him into an alley and around the corner, pushing him up against the wall and pressing close.

"Wow," he says, then catches his breath when she gets her knee in between his legs. "Really? I mean, I'm in if that's what you want, but people do some nasty things in these alleys."

She puts her mouth close to his ear and murmurs low, "Don't look, but we've got company."

"I bet we do," he replies, just as quiet, and adds a kiss to her neck. "You into that? Having an audience?"

A little shiver goes through her and she nips at him. "I... well, I didn't think I was, but now that you've said that..."

"Mmm." He slips a hand down, grabbing her ass and pulling her more firmly against him. "You like that, huh? Knowing someone is watching you? Listening to you get off? Maybe getting turned on by what they see?"

She moans low in her throat and rolls her hips, squirming. "That's... okay, wow Bobby, we might have to try that later. But that's not why I pulled you in here."

"No? What is it?"

"Our stalker is back. I just caught a flash of his glow in the building behind us."

"Seriously?" He carefully doesn't look in that direction. "The guy from Bunker Hill, right? Deacon?"

She nods. "He's being more careful now. Not out in the open; I think he's watching us through a window."

"Yeah?" MacCready shakes his head. "Guy doesn't give up. What do you want to do?"

Emma hesitates for a moment. "Okay, part of me wants to keep going, just to see what he'll do."

MacCready laughs and kisses her, licking into her mouth. She kisses back and tugs at him, one hand going down between them, rubbing his dick through his pants. He can't deny there's a certain dirty thrill to it, knowing they're being watched, and he can tell she feels it too. She's wriggling against him, breathing fast in his ear, kissing whatever skin she can reach.

"You sure?" he asks, then groans when she squeezes him firmly. "Cause either we finish this here, or we get to the room real quick."

"Here," she says, breathless. "Put your hands on me, Bobby. I want your fingers. Right here in the open."

He doesn't wait to be asked twice. He unzips her pants and slides his hand in, finding her already wet and slippery, hot against his skin. She shudders when he curls two fingers and dips them in, rubbing her. He presses the ball of his thumb right up against her clit, giving her something to grind into, and she rocks her hips forward eagerly.

"Oh _fuck_ ," she mutters, voice coming out rough and shaking. "How is that so good every time? Yeah, right there, harder."

He presses hard, wet kisses up the line of her throat, then nibbles her earlobe. She gasps, arching her back. Then she gets a hand in his pants and wraps it around him, stroking him the way she's already mastered, fast and tight and just rough enough. He's still pinned, the wall solid behind him, Emma plastered across his chest, holding him in place, and god he loves it when she takes charge.

"You wanna know what he's doing?" she whispers in his ear, low and filthy.

"Yeah," he says, and thrusts up harder into her grip. "Yeah, tell me. Is he still watching?"

"Oh yes," she says. "He's a mess. Turned on, he can't look away, but he hasn't touched himself yet. He wants to, though."

He doesn't know why that's so hot but he can't stop thinking about it. Some stranger, watching them, getting hard and desperate, wanting to get off. Maybe holding onto something to keep his hands away, biting his lip, trying to control his breathing. Telling himself he should look away, he should stop watching, but unable to actually do it. Caught there, transfixed and helpless.

"You _like_ it," Emma says, and kisses him hard, biting his bottom lip. "Oh, this is getting you so good, I love it when you get all worked up."

She adds a twist with her wrist, focusing on the tip and sliding the foreskin up and down in delicious little rubs. He bites back a sharp cry, reminding himself they're not far from the open street and anyone could hear. That only makes it sweeter, though, the danger, the risk of getting caught at any moment. His heart hammers in his chest and her hand just never stops, pushing him higher and higher.

He adds a third finger, driving them into her harder, and she clutches at him and rubs her clit into his thumb in tight circles. "Yeah," he mumbles, "do it, take it. You're so wet, this is making you crazy, isn't it?"

She muffles a moan against his shoulder. "Oh, oh, just like that, don't stop," she says, the words all coming out in a helpless rush. Then she looks up sharply, and a dirty grin spreads across her face. "He couldn't wait any longer."

"Yeah?" MacCready finds himself picturing it, the guy finally giving in, squeezing himself through his jeans, moaning in relief, and then frantically tugging them open. Watching them and stroking himself in time to their movements, getting off at the sight of them. The image fills him with a confusing mix of arousal and a strange guilty thrill of doing something naughty and forbidden.

"Oh yeah," she says, and she's so close, he can feel it, she's shaking and clenching tight around his fingers. "He wants us, he... oh, oh like that Bobby, right _there_..."

Her hand goes tight on him when she comes, squeezing him hard, and the _sound_ she makes sends shivers down his back and that's it, he can't hold on any more. He has to bite down on the collar of her jacket to keep quiet, pleasure rolling thick and heady through him, and she strokes him through it until he's trembling and weak-kneed.

He sags against the wall, eyes closed, just breathing. She's still leaning on him, face tucked into the curve of his neck, her body limp and pliant. "Wow," he says after a long moment. "Well, there's a kink I didn't know I had."

She giggles and presses lazy, soft kisses to his jaw. "That was amazing."

He nods and fastens both their pants again, wiping his hand on her shirt. "How's our audience?"

"Confused," she says. "I think he feels a little guilty about getting off on watching us." She tilts her head, considering. "Not _very_ guilty, though. And... oh."

"What?"

She shrugs. "Kind of sad. He's lonely."

"Yeah, well, I can't really feel sorry for a guy who goes around spying on people and lying about it," MacCready says. "He kind of brought that on himself."

"Mmm. Fair enough." She straightens, then looks down at the her shirt and wrinkles her nose. "Come on, I _just_ washed this."

He laughs. "Hey, this was your idea."

"Yeah, it was worth it. Okay - I think we need to confront this guy. Get some answers. But first, let's get changed."

"Would be kinda funny to walk up to him like this," MacCready says. "Just to see his face."

"You're such an ass," she says, but she's grinning.

"Yeah, whatever," he says. "You love me, you know it."

She kisses him; it's answer enough.

~~~


	21. Negotiations

The building turns out to be one of the warehouses that they'd cleared the last time they were in Goodneighbor. It's still mostly empty, except for a few drifters on the first floor using it as a place to sleep and get high. Emma looks around, then takes him toward the stairs. "Kinda weird being back here," she says as they go up. "Maybe Hancock wanted these cleared so drifters would have a place to get off the street."

"Sounds like something he'd do," MacCready agrees. "He's dangerous if you cross him, but he's got a soft spot a mile wide for the people who call Goodneighbor home."

She nods, then pulls him to the side as they near the third floor. "Our guy is alone up there," she says softly. "But he knows we're coming. Must've seen us entering the building."

"What's the play?" he asks. They're both armed, because they never leave their room without weapons, but he doesn't expect to be shooting anyone today.

"I'll figure that out as we go," she says. "Follow my lead."

"Can do, boss."

She gives him a wry grin and then straightens, walking up the last few stairs in full view. The room is big, and they have to cross a wide open space and go through a doorway to find a little blocked off section, surrounded by dangling can traps and crunchy debris on the floor. Deacon is indeed waiting for them, sitting in a ragged armchair by the window, smoking a cigarette. His expression is calm and easy, giving nothing away, eyes hidden as always behind dark sunglasses. There's a couch facing him at an angle, clearly set up so they can sit and talk.

"Hey, guys," he says. "Nice of you to visit. Pull up a chair. Get you anything to drink?"

Emma snorts and crosses the room, then settles onto the couch. MacCready takes his place beside her, watching Deacon for any sudden movements. He can't see a weapon, but that doesn't mean much.

"I get the feeling you were expecting us," she says.

Deacon shrugs. "Figured you'd turn up sooner or later. You do have a knack for it."

"Hmm," she says. "So you're done pretending not to know me?"

"Hey, I'm adaptable," he says. "Plan A wasn't working out. Probably time we talked anyway."

"Oh? And what do we have to talk about?"

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Mostly? You, your wacky psychic powers, and your campaign to destroy the Institute."

Emma's eyes narrow; MacCready can feel her tense up. "I'm not sure what you mean," she says, each word crisp and icy.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Deacon says. "I'm afraid that ship has sailed. You two had a very interesting conversation in the Third Rail today."

"You weren't there," she says sharply. "I would've seen you."

Deacon makes a disapproving _tsk_ noise. "You need to practice a little more discretion. You think I'm the only person paying attention to you? I've got ears everywhere. It's kind of my thing."

"And what is it you think you know?"

"Enough to know we're on the same side," he says. "Although frankly, I've known that for a while. I was going to let you come to us, but the situation has changed. We can't wait forever."

Emma stares at him for a long moment. "You believe that. You really do think we're on the same side."

Deacon spreads his hands. "Isn't that what I just said? I do tell the truth sometimes, you know."

"Not often enough," MacCready says, irritated. "Why don't you quit dancing around and just get to the point? Who are you, really, and why are you following us?"

"Patience, my trigger-happy little buddy," Deacon says. "I'm getting there." He turns to Emma and adds, "Maybe first, you tell me how you knew my name."

She smiles. "That's really bothering you, isn't it? Sorry, not telling."

Deacon shrugs. "Sure, whatever. Here's an easier one for you - how'd you know a member of the Brotherhood is a synth?"

"Why? You have a problem with synths?"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Later, you're going to get why that's funny. But no, I think we can safely say I do not have a problem with synths. Some of my best friends are synths, actually."

"Wow, that's weird," Emma says. "It's like - you believed that was true, but at the same time, you didn't."

For the first time, Deacon looks slightly rattled; he shifts in his seat, jaw tightening for a moment. He shakes it off quickly and returns to his deliberately casual pose. "Afraid you lost me there."

"I think it was the friends part," she says. "It was true that you're fine with synths - you just don't consider them your friends. Because you don't really have any friends." She pauses, then nods. "Yeah, that's it. I could see that one hit home."

Deacon is quiet for a long moment. "Okay, look," he says, a lot of the studied nonchalance gone from his voice. "I think we have similar goals, and I think we can work together. But you've gotta stop doing that."

"Why? The truth hurts?"

His mouth flattens into a thin line and he looks away. When he looks back, the easy grin is in place again. "Something like that. But hey, you're pissed off at me for the whole spying on you thing, I get it. How about a truce? I'll level with you. And that's not an offer I make to many people, so you should really jump on it while you've got the chance."

"Fine," she says. "If you really do plan on being straight with me. Let's hear it."

He takes a deep breath. "You ever hear of an organization called the Railroad?"

She shakes her head. MacCready says, "Yeah, I've heard of them, but just rumors. Something about helping synths escape the Institute?"

Emma turns, looking at him. "What? You never mentioned them before."

"I don't know much," he says. "Most people aren't even sure if they exist."

"Good," Deacon says. "That's how we like it."

"Oh," Emma says. "You work for them?"

He nods. "As you can probably imagine, we're not real popular with most folks in the Commonwealth. Not a lot of people interested in helping synths; they'd rather blame them for all the bad things the Institute does. Hell, half the time it's our fellow wastelanders who are the biggest threat."

"I see," she says slowly. "And these synths you've helped, they know where the Institute is? How to get in and out?"

"No," Deacon says. "I wish it were that easy. There's some kind of failsafe that destroys that part of their memory when they get out. The synths we rescue? They're scared. They're not trying to infiltrate the Commonwealth or hurt anyone or advance some big, sinister agenda. The Institute treats them like tools that can be used up and thrown away. They're slaves, and they just want a chance to have their own lives."

Emma leans back, her shoulder pressing against MacCready's. "Okay," she says. "I agree with you so far. And I'll even agree that what your organization does is noble. But where do I come into this?"

"Well, that's the question," he says. "Because you are just one big beautiful mystery, and I still haven't figured you out."

MacCready snorts. "Good luck."

Emma elbows him in the side. "Start by telling me what you know about me," she says. "All of it. I'll decide if you know enough."

"Yeah, that's not really how I operate."

She gives him a level look. "Then it's time to start."

Deacon frowns, then gives a resigned sigh. "Okay, but remember that you asked. Don't freak out if I know more than you're comfortable with."

Emma doesn't answer, just gestures at him to continue.

"Right." He holds up a hand, ticking off points on his fingers. "You came out of Vault 111 a few months back. Some kind of cryo-vault, and based on the records in there, you're most likely pre-war, frozen for the past couple hundred years. Before you were in the vault, there are no records of you at all. It's like you didn't exist. Once you got out, you started making some serious waves in the Commonwealth. Became the general of the Minutemen, re-took the Castle, slaughtered a shitload of raiders, Gunners, and just about every other nasty out there. Now you've got at least twenty settlements and the Minutemen are back in a very big way. You bailed Nick Valentine out of a jam and talked your way past Skinny Malone, too. Even better, you're the one who took out Kellogg. He's been a thorn in the Railroad's side for a very long time, and you did us a major favor by killing him. No small feat, there. You've left a trail of destruction in your wake and gone places no sane person would go. Bottom line, you're someone we want on our side."

She raises an eyebrow. "That's quite a list."

Deacon gives a little shrug, but he's smiling. "Hey, I take pride in what I do."

"Uh-huh," she says. "But that's the stuff you got by stalking me, and none of it is really secret. Now tell me the rest."

He hesitates, watching them both carefully. "You were sick for a while," he says. "It wasn't looking good, until you started running with this guy." He waves at MacCready. "Now, you guys are the dynamic duo, and you're stronger than ever. Not sure what happened there."

"I got better," she says flatly. "Keep going."

"Okay - you've got serious issues with the Institute. You want them dead in a big way, and most of what you've done so far is toward that end. And hey, I'm all for it, but the Institute isn't some big scary monster you can shoot in the face. It's humans and synths and a lot of them are just caught up in the jaws of the machine."

Her expression is stony. "I'd rather not kill innocent people. But if it's necessary to take down the Institute, then I'll do it."

"Yeah," Deacon says. "I thought that might be the case. Just promise me you'll think about your choices. What sort of world you'd like to build, and how you're going to pay for it."

"I'm not building worlds here," Emma says. "I have simpler goals. And you're changing the subject."

He nods. "Alright. The motherlode - somehow you know if a person is a synth or not. Something no one has ever been able to do. That's an ability a lot of people would kill for, and if it got into the wrong hands, it could be a death sentence for every synth that the Railroad has ever managed to save. I've kept this one strictly to myself because if it ever got back to HQ, there's a chance they'd want to remove that risk."

MacCready stiffens, one hand going to the stock of his rifle. "You're saying they'd kill her, aren't you?"

Deacon nods solemnly. "I can't say for sure. But it's possible that they'd try, and I don't want to see that happen. I've seen the way you go to war," he says to Emma. "We've got enough enemies, and I don't want another one. Especially not you."

She's quiet for a minute, thinking. "Alright," she says. "That was the truth. Anything else?"

He shrugs. "Just your human lie detector trick, which you don't seem to be trying to hide. Beyond that, it's obvious there's more, but I haven't been able to figure it out yet."

Emma takes a deep breath, settling back on the couch. "So what do you want from me?"

"Work with us," Deacon says. "Someone with your skills? That could make a big difference for us. And you won't find another group of people in the Commonwealth who are more dedicated to taking down the Institute. Your Minutemen are getting stronger all the time, but this really isn't their fight."

"And what would be involved in working with you?"

He gives her another of those easy, meaningless grins. "Well, first we've got to get the others on board. Which means you need to 'find' us the old-fashioned way. Run a few ops, impress the higher-ups, and pretty soon you'll be a full fledged agent."

She glances at MacCready, raising her eyebrows. He shrugs - he's got plenty of opinions about this, but none that he wants to share in front of Deacon. She nods and gets to her feet, and he follows suit. "Well, you've given me a lot to think about," she says to Deacon. "We'll let you know."

"Sure," Deacon says. "And in the meantime, be a little more careful, huh? You never know who might be watching."

The smile she gives him is absolutely filthy. "But Deacon," she says, her voice sugar-sweet and guileless, "you seemed to enjoy watching us so much just a little while ago. I'd hate for you to miss the show."

MacCready thinks that the look on Deacon's face as they walk away has got to be the funniest thing he's seen in a very long time.

~~~


	22. The Freedom Trail

"Follow the Freedom Trail," MacCready mutters, scowling at the red line on the ground. "Seriously? He couldn't just tell us where to go? This is like a tour of all the most dangerous spots in the city."

"I know, I know," Emma says. "But they've got cameras set up - if we just cut straight to the end, they'd know we were tipped off."

"According to Deacon, sure," he replies. "I think he just wanted to get back at us, since you called him out on being a perv."

She snickers, covering her mouth with one hand. "God, did you see his face? That was priceless."

MacCready snorts, nodding his head. "I gotta admit though, he played it real cool when we went back. Acted like nothing even happened."

"Only on the outside," she says. "He's a mess. His glow is one of the most mixed up I've ever seen. That guy has got _issues_."

"That's so reassuring," MacCready says. "Are you still sure we're doing the right thing, working with him?"

"He made some good points," she says. "And he's right about the Minutemen - this isn't really their fight. One of the reasons I've delayed going into the Glowing Sea is because I don't want to risk their lives in that place. They volunteered to help their fellow settlers, to protect their friends and family. They didn't sign up to walk into that death trap for my personal crusade."

"Yeah, but who says the Railroad is going to be any better?" he replies. "I feel like this is just going to be another group of people who want your help, not the other way around."

"We'll see. I'll at least hear them out."

"Fair enough," he says. Then he grabs her arm, tugging her closer against the side of a building. "Hang on, we need to be real careful here. That's the Common - people don't come back from there."

"Yeah?" She peers across the open space, eying the pond. They're traveling at night, as usual, and so far they've only run into small pockets of trouble. Thanks to their dark armor and their silenced weapons, they've been able to slide right past the riskiest spots.

"You see anything?"

She frowns, then takes his hand. Her eyes widen. "Whoa," she breathes. "There's something in the water. Something _big_."

"Okay, how about we _don't_ tangle with it?" he says. "I'd like to not be torn apart today, thanks."

"Good idea." She gives him a quick grin and they skirt the edges, keeping close to the shadow of the surrounding buildings.

The trail takes them in a loop; there are a few places where the line is covered by trash and debris, but they manage to pick it up again each time. It doesn't take long before they're right back at Goodneighbor. MacCready stares at the neon sign over the gates and shakes his head. "Okay, that's it. He's definitely screwing with us."

She just laughs and continues on, following the trail to the next station. They keep low as they approach Faneuil Hall; MacCready can see the red blinking glow of a mini-nuke in the hand of a super mutant suicider. "Sneak past, or take them out?" he asks.

"There's a big bonfire right there, and the the trail goes real close to it. I think there's too much light for us to get by undetected. Plus, they've got those creepy dog-things, they're always a little too good at hearing us."

He nods and sights down his scope at the suicider. "If I can hit the nuke, it'll wipe out a bunch of them at once."

"Can you hit it from here?"

"Oh yeah," he says, grinning. "And lemme tell you, it never gets old."

"Go for it," she says.

He takes his time about it, feeling for the right moment, that click when it falls into place and he knows the shot is perfect. Emma has a hand on his back, warm and steady, and the familiar shooter's calm only makes it better. He squeezes the trigger and then watches the show. The mini-nuke goes up with a flash of bright light and a big, satisfying fireball. The suicider is blown to bits, and he takes two others with him, plus one of the hounds. The rest of them shout in alarm and come running, searching for them.

Emma has her own rifle out and she takes the next shot, dropping the other hound with a clean headshot. They pick off the rest of the targets one by one. There's a big mutant in the back with a mini-gun, standing on some scaffolding to the side of the building and laying down a heavy hail of bullets. They have to keep behind their cover and wait until he stops shooting. MacCready looks down his scope, but the bars of the scaffolding are in the way and he can't get a clear view.

"Wait for it," Emma says. "He's going to come looking for us soon."

"What does a super mutant look like, anyway?" MacCready asks. "Are they like people?"

She shakes her head, still watching the target. "Not exactly. But they were people once. Their glow is plainer, simpler than a human's, but they still have distinct colors and emotions."

"Weird," he says. "Imagine what that's like, turning into a mutant. Do you think it happens fast?"

"I don't know." She frowns, holding her rifle a little tighter. "I don't like to think about it. They're monsters now, but at one point, they were humans. Innocent victims who were infected with something that did this to them."

He's not sure how to answer that. He watches as the super mutant lowers his mini-gun and peers across the courtyard suspiciously. Then he starts walking down the scaffolding. They wait until he's in full view, and then Emma catches him with two rounds in the chest and MacCready hits him in the arm that's holding the weapon. He's tough - it's not enough to kill him, but it makes him drop the gun and shout in pain.

They have to hit him several more times to finish him off, and by the end, he spots them and comes running. It's a close thing; he winds up in a bloody heap about ten feet away. Emma looks at him for a long moment, her face unreadable. Then she seems to shake it off. "Okay," she says, turning to MacCready. "Loot the bodies for anything useful, and let's move on."

Their routine of searching and scavenging is well established and smooth by this point. They're soon back on the trail, squeezing through an alley and coming out in front of a battered old statue of a man on a horse. Emma reads the plaque at the base and makes an interested hum.

"Anything good?" he asks.

"Just kind of cool, being here," she says. "A lot of my classes in the lab focused on the history of warfare. I learned about the American Revolution, among other things. Think about that; this is more than five hundred years old, and it's still standing."

He looks up at a tattered flag, dangling limply on its flagpole. "Yeah, I guess. Seems like one war isn't much different from the next. Just a lot of people dying for what someone else wants."

She nods slowly, thoughtfully. "Maybe you're right. It never changes."

He pulls her close, giving her a quick kiss. "Come on, we've gotta be getting close."

"Right."

She pushes on. The trail leads them up to an old church and stops; there's a painting of a lantern beside the door. They exchange glances, then go in, slow and quiet. She pauses inside the door, looking around. The place has a feel that he recognizes, a kind of somber air that lingers in these ancient churches. It smells of dust and mold and there is trash and broken, splintered wood everywhere, but still, something remains. This was a special place once.

She sighs and switches to her pistol. "Ferals," she says. "Watch your step."

He nods and follows her, pulling out his shotgun as they go. She leads them down into the old catacombs. He can see the line of her shoulders go tense as they enter the dark tunnel, the crumbling stone walls pressing close around them, but he doesn't mention it.

There are indeed ferals - he can already see the sickly green glow of irradiated blood splashed on a few of the walls. She takes the first few with her pistol, fast and quiet, but the tunnels are close and sound carries. Soon the ferals come at them in a rush, and they pull back to a narrow space to create a bottleneck. MacCready grits his teeth and blasts them with round after round, aware of the solid warmth of Emma at his side. Their moaning and growling echoes, making him feel surrounded; he keeps wanting to check over his shoulder, afraid they've gotten behind him. He can almost feel their claws on his back, that hot, rancid breath on his neck.

But she would know if anything was there; she'd sense it. He keeps his focus forward, striving for cold detachment. He fires and reloads mechanically, picking his targets, fiercely swallowing back the fear that tries to crawl up his throat. He's got to get over this - he can't spend the rest of his life terrified of ferals. There's just too many of them, and panicking at the wrong time is going to get them both killed.

The last one drops with a guttural wail and they're still standing. The air is choked with dust and smoke and his ears are ringing with gunfire, but he's not injured. He turns to Emma, touching her face, then patting her arms and legs. "You okay? Did they get you?"

"I'm okay," she says. Then she pulls him close, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing his cheek. "We're alright."

He's not sure which of them she's reassuring, but he soaks it up anyway. She allows this indulgence for only a minute, and then she turns forward, all business once again.

They wind through the tunnels, and as he looks around, he realizes this is a crypt. There are worn markers everywhere, with names and dates. He can even see a few ancient skeletons, uncovered by time and erosion. "This is creepy," he murmurs in a hushed voice.

She nods, but doesn't reply. At the end of the tunnel there is a blank brick wall, and another of those Freedom Trail markers. She stands in front of it, then reaches for him. He takes her hands and waits.

"We're close," she says. "Several people inside, most of them right at the edge of my range. There's another smaller group, closer. Three people. They know we're here."

"Guess they must be the welcoming party. But how do we get in?"

She turns to the trail marker, then pushes on it with her fingertips; the wheel in the center turns a few clicks. "Ah," she says. "That explains the writing on the other trail markers."

"It's a puzzle?"

She snorts. "Barely. Watch." She turns the wheel a little at a time, pressing the center when it rests on the letter she wants. He spells it out in his head - Railroad.

He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's their super secret password?"

"Right?" She shrugs and shakes her head. "Whatever. Let's go."

The section of wall slides away; he has to admit that part is fairly slick. He wouldn't have known there was an opening there. The tunnel beyond is pitch black. Emma takes his hand, then whispers in his ear. "They're right ahead of us. I think they're going to try and surprise us. Don't shoot anyone."

"Got it."

They take a few careful steps, and then there is a click and a hum, and bright light blares out, blinding him for a moment. He sees the three people she predicted, two of them holding weapons aimed right at them. His hand tightens on the stock of his shotgun, but he keeps it across his chest.

"Stop right there," the woman in the middle says. "You went through a lot of effort to arrange this meeting, but before we go any further, answer my questions. Who the hell are you?"

Emma considers for a moment. "Not your enemy," she says. "From what I hear, we may be on the same side."

"Really," the woman says. "And what do you hear?"

"That you're part of an organization dedicated to helping synths," Emma replies. "And taking down the Institute. I'm on board with both those things. Maybe we can help each other."

"If that's true, you have nothing to fear," she says. "Who told you how to contact us?"

Emma smiles a little. "Friend of yours, I believe."

The woman narrows her eyes. "Which friend?"

"Pretty sure he prefers to remain anonymous," Emma says. "You know how it is. Why don't you tell me your name?"

She lifts her chin, drawing herself up. "I'm Desdemona," she says. "And I'm the leader of the Railroad. And you are...?"

"I'm Emma."

MacCready nudges her and lifts his chin toward the far tunnel; he can see a man in jeans and a ratty tee shirt approaching. The sunglasses are a dead giveaway. Figures the guy doesn't even take them off in a dark tunnel.

"Deacon," Desdemona says over her shoulder. "Where have you been?"

"You're having a party," Deacon drawls. "What gives with my invitation?"

Desdemona makes an irritated noise; MacCready gets the sense that she has a very limited amount of patience with Deacon's crap. He can sympathise. "I need intel," she says. "Who is this?"

"Ah, that's the big question, Dez," he replies. "Our new friend here is a very mysterious woman, but she's also kind of a big deal out there. You really haven't heard of her? General of the Minutemen, is that ringing any bells? She's the one who took down Kellogg; hell, that alone should be enough to get her a free pass."

"Gosh," Emma says, all wide-eyed wonder. "How do you know that? It's almost like you've been watching me or something. Is that what you do? Watch people?"

MacCready hides a laugh behind one hand. Deacon clears his throat and turns to Desdemona. "She's just hitting her stride, boss, and she's no friend of the Institute."

"So you're vouching for her?" Desdemona asks.

"Yes," Deacon says firmly. "Trust me, she's someone we want on our side."

" _Trust me,_ " MacCready mutters under his breath. "I bet he says that a lot."

Emma kicks him in the ankle, but remains quiet.

Desdemona nods slowly, looking them both over. "That changes things," she says. "I don't know what you've heard about us out there, but the fact is, we've had a rough time lately. The Institute hit us hard not that long ago, and we lost a lot of good people. We need friends, now more than ever. If you're offering, and Deacon says you're on our side, that's enough for me."

Emma nods. "So what happens next?"

"One more question," she replies. "A big one. You said you were on board with helping synths; how far does that go? Would you risk your life to save someone else - even if that person is a synth?"

"I risk my life all the time," Emma says. "Humans, ghouls, synths - whatever. They're all people. Makes no difference to me. And if working with you means protecting synths, I'll do it, but I'm not going to lie; for me, this is about finding the Institute, getting in, and taking them down. If that includes saving some innocent synths along the way, good, but that's not my primary goal. Let's just be straight with each other from the beginning. We clear?"

Desdemona raises her eyebrows. "Well, you're certainly direct."

"Lying isn't my strong suit," Emma replies. "I leave that to the experts."

Deacon gives her a look, but doesn't comment. Desdemona smiles. "Refreshing. I'll take it. I wish I could say everyone here is in it for the greater good, but the truth is a lot of us have been burned by the Institute. Revenge is as good a reason as any."

Emma nods. "Works for me."

"Normally, you're exactly the type of person we try to recruit," Desdemona continues. "But right now, we don't have time to train up a new agent. There are other ways you can contribute."

"Come on, Dez," Deacon says. "She's not some random hick off the street. The lady can take care of herself. You seriously want to waste all that potential?"

"Enough, Deacon," Desdemona replies sharply. "There's a way we do things, and you know it. Being careful keeps us alive." She turns back to Emma. "Deacon will be your primary contact. See him for mission details. You're free to go."

The three of them turn away and go back down the tunnel, leaving them alone in the dusty alcove with Deacon. Emma watches them go, then moves closer, lowering her voice. "So what was the point of all that?" she asks. "If we're just going to be getting mission specs from you anyway, we could've skipped the whole mess and stayed in Goodneighbor."

"You heard her," Deacon replies. "There's a way we do things. If I tried to foist you off on Dez without the introduction, she'd refuse just on general principles. She's a very careful woman, and she takes protocol very seriously."

MacCready snorts, folding his arms. "So you got to show off to your boss, but we still haven't even seen the inside of this place. Far as I can tell, we're here to make you look good."

"Nah," Deacon says, smirking. "That's just a perk."

Emma rolls her eyes. "Now what? More hoops we have to jump through?"

"Just one," Deacon says. "Believe me, if Dez had her way, you'd be running bullshit missions for months, always at a distance from the real nerve center. It takes time to get into the Railroad. But, lucky for you, I'm going to hook you up."

"Uh-huh," MacCready says. "Let's hear it."

"There's a job," Deacon says. "Too big for me, just perfect for the two of us."

"Three of us," Emma says. "MacCready and I are a package deal."

Deacon gives MacCready a quick glance, unreadable behind his sunglasses. "Yeah. I noticed that."

MacCready grins. "Sorry, only the first show is free. Gonna need caps up front if you want a repeat performance."

"Oh?" Deacon says. "I knew you were a merc; didn't realize you had such an extensive list of services. Explains why she hired you, at least."

He narrows his eyes. "You know, now that I think of it, you couldn't afford me. Guess you'll have to fly solo, but I guess that's what you're used to."

"Enough," Emma says sharply. "Deacon, what's the job?"

"Right," Deacon says. "Up front, the only thing I'll say is it's going to be a wild and dangerous ride. But probably nothing new for you."

"I don't like going in blind," she says. "You're gonna need to give me more than that."

Deacon sighs and shakes his head. "Not yet. Meet me at the old freeway outside Lexington. I'll fill you in once you get there."

"Why can't you just tell me now?" she asks. "You've already decided to trust me enough to lead me here, to your headquarters. Now you want to shut me out?"

"Look, I took a risk bringing you here," Deacon says. "A big one. And I put my neck on the line vouching for you with Dez. You talk a good game, but there is still a huge amount of stuff I don't know about you. It's my job around here to know things and you? You are making that hard for me. So how about a little faith?"

"Faith," Emma says dryly, "is not my strong suit."

"Come on," Deacon says. "Look at me. Use your mojo. Am I lying?"

She considers for a long moment, then looks at MacCready, raising her eyebrows. He shrugs. "I don't like it either," he says. "But the last time I took something on faith it worked out pretty well."

A small smile curls up one corner of her mouth, and she nods. "Alright," she says to Deacon. "I'll give you a chance."

Deacon gives them his quick, facile grin. "See? We're going to be best buds. I can already tell."

~~~


	23. Tradecraft

MacCready doesn't want to be impressed. He doesn't really want to like Deacon, or the Railroad in general. He puts on a blank face and doesn't react much to the lessons about rail signs, tourists and agents and secret code phrases - but okay, yeah, it's pretty cool. It makes him feel like a spy in a comic book, like he's part of some secret club. Plus, now he finally understands all those weird painted symbols he's seen around the Commonwealth.

 

They get the information from the nervous guy on the overpass. Emma wins him over pretty much immediately by realizing that he's wound up because he ran out of cigarettes a few days ago. She convinces Deacon to give him half a pack and he's much more friendly after that. Then they head down to the tunnel to sneak in the back.

 

He's not expecting much - who builds a secret base under a donut shop? But it turns out to be a sprawling complex. He can see Emma tense up the way she always does when they go underground, but she keeps a handle on it and they knock out the first few synths pretty easily. Emma makes a point of not looting the human bodies. MacCready follows suit, because yeah, that'd be kind of tacky with Deacon standing right there. 

 

They pause over the remains of a couple synths. Deacon sighs and shakes his head. "Gen ones and twos," he says. "Good thing we didn't bring Glory."

 

"What does that mean?" Emma asks.

 

"Glory's a synth. I guess you knew that, huh?"

 

She nods. "The one with the mini-gun. But what's your point?"

 

Deacon shrugs. "She's what we call a Gen three - those are the synths who look human, and they're the ones with the most... life? They've got free will, emotions, the whole shebang. But when it comes to the Gen ones and twos, the line gets a little blurry. Are they alive? Do they deserve freedom too? Or are they fancy robots? And if you want to make it even more complicated, where does life really begin? Should we be liberating protectrons? Mister Handies?"

 

"No," Emma says. "These ones, they're different. There is a clear leap between these and the Gen threes."

 

"Well, don't say that around HQ," Deacon says. "You'll start a fight. A lot of people, Glory included, consider it our mission to help  _ all  _ the synths, not just the ones that look human. Upshot of that is she won't do missions like this."

 

"What do they look like?" MacCready asks. "Can you see them?"

 

Deacon gives him a confused look, but Emma nods. "I can, but just barely. It's very simple, very basic."

 

"Enough to pick them up, though," MacCready says. "To see them coming?"

 

She spreads her hands, grimacing. "Not that well down here. The walls are thick, and those pools of irradiated water aren't helping. Keep your eyes open."

 

Deacon glances between them. "So, you going to let me in on whatever you guys are talking about?"

 

"No," Emma says. Then she raises her weapon and moves on down the tunnel.

 

"Your girlfriend's kind of confusing," Deacon mutters to him.

 

MacCready snorts. "Yeah, you have no idea."

 

They do alright for the first few rooms, but a cluster of synths surprises them at a corner and MacCready takes a laser blast to the gut. It sears the skin and leaves him doubled over, gasping. Emma steps in front of him and fires back; he can hear Deacon shooting as well, cracking off loud bangs that echo on the stone walls. MacCready slides down, grabbing a stimpak and injecting it over the worst of the burn. He can still feel the heat baking off the wound and he bites his lip hard to keep quiet. He hates lasers; they always seem to hurt so much more than bullets.

 

Emma and Deacon finish off the synths and then Emma is crouched beside him. She puts her hands gently over the lingering heat; they feel cool and soothing and he sags back against the wall, breathing out while the stimpak works. 

 

"Okay?" Emma asks.

 

He nods. "Getting there."

 

She smoothes his hair back and kisses his forehead. It's a minor hit, really; nothing that requires this much fuss, but yeah, it's kinda nice to be fussed over anyway. He glances up; Deacon is looking the other way, his face an unreadable blank in profile.

 

MacCready gets to his feet and reloads. "I'm good," he says. "Let's go."

 

The tunnels make him think of an old sewer system, but then they reach a point where crumbling brick and mortar gives way to industrial hallways, high ceilings, and concrete walls. It makes him uneasy, but he can't quite figure out why. Beside him, Emma is white-faced and grim. He gives her a questioning look but she just shakes her head and moves on.

 

It takes a few more twists and turns before he gets it. It's the camera in the corner that really does it, he thinks. This place was wired to be under constant observation. Then there's the stark white walls, the low hum of power running behind them, the glaring fluorescent lights; even the layout, clean and functional and without any touch of life or humanity. It's the lab all over again. When he looks around, he can even see it for a moment, the path from her cell to the range, or the classroom, the speakers and cameras and tests. 

 

He shudders, pushing the memory away - it's not even his, but that still happens sometimes, flashes of her memories, her life. 

 

Deacon seems not to notice. "Prepare to be shocked; not every Slocum's Joe has a massive tunnel complex underneath it. We're entering a secret Defence Intelligence Agency research lab. A place that never officially existed."

 

"Great," Emma says tightly. "That's fantastic. Places like that are always good news."

 

MacCready touches her hand; she squeezes hard for a moment, clutching at him, but doesn't let herself slow down.

 

"Yeah," Deacon says, a little uncertainly. "It's called the Switchboard. The prototype we're after is locked in the heart of the facility."

 

They encounter another pocket of resistance in a large room with an observation office in the upper level. They pick off a few synths through the windows, then wait for the rest to come through the door and take them out. Once the room is clear, they slide in, keeping close to the wall. Emma looks around, focusing hard. "I think we're clear," she says. 

 

The first room on their right looks like sleeping quarters; several bunks lined up side by side and a few scattered personal belongings. It's a reminder that people lived here once. This was someone's home, and now most of them are dead. The Commonwealth is full of such places, of course, but usually they don't feel quite so recent.

 

Deacon is quiet, following along behind them. Emma is tense and unhappy for her own reasons. MacCready just keeps his eyes open for threats.

 

The next hallway has signs in neat printing, pointing them toward R&D. It also has more synths. Deacon catches a glancing hit in one shoulder and grunts in pain, but keeps going. Emma shoots them down with brutal effectiveness. She's using too many bullets again, eyes blank and distant. He's not sure where she is in her head, but he doubts it's anywhere good.

 

They wind up headed toward "Department X," whatever that is. It's full of consoles and terminals, one of which still appears to be live. Usually Emma reads those, but she passes this one by without a glance. MacCready finds himself wondering what her glow would look like if he could see it now. Even Deacon is picking up on the change, casting a worried glance at her back. 

 

"She's not looking so good," he murmurs to MacCready.

 

"She'll be fine," MacCready replies. "She's tough." 

 

There seems to be an endless supply of synths, popping up from every corner and doorway. They're flimsy things, for the most part, going down in a few hits, but they don't react to pain or damage and they have no fear. Emma catches a point-blank blast in one leg and flinches, but doesn't make a sound. 

 

"Hold on," MacCready says when they've cleared the room. "Use a stimpak."

 

She doesn't look at him, limping forward, holding her weapon in a white-knuckled grip.

 

"Ease up there Rambo," Deacon adds. "We've got a minute, heal up."

 

No response - it's like she's not hearing them. MacCready catches her by the elbow and swings her around and for a moment she actually lifts her weapon - not quite pointing it at him, but definitely headed that way. He gets his face close to hers and touches her jaw, tilting it up until she has to meet his eyes. "Hey," he says softly. "Come on, Emma, right here. Look at me."

 

At first there is nothing, her stare empty and distant, but then her expression clears and she shudders, face creasing with pain. "Bobby," she says.

 

"Yeah, I got you." He helps her sit in a chair and then peels back the burned fabric of her pants, wincing at the red, raw skin beneath. He injects a stimpak at the edge of the burn, then rests his hands on her leg, stroking the healthy skin he can reach. 

 

She leans back and puts a hand over her face. Deacon stands to the side, watching for more synths, and MacCready is grateful for it. He needs to focus.

 

The burn heals readily enough, the stimpak working, but Emma is still gray-white and shivering, her breathing a rapid, shallow series of gasps. He waits until the wound is mostly gone and then he helps her take the few steps to the corner of the room. They slide down against the wall, tucking into the small space, Emma curled against his chest. She's cold, her hands icy when they touch his face.

 

"She okay?" Deacon asks. "I didn't think she got hit that bad."

 

"It's just this place," MacCready says. "Give us a few minutes."

 

Deacon frowns, but nods and turns away.

 

"I know," MacCready murmurs to her. "I can feel it too. It's too much like that lab. But we're not there, Emma. That's over."

 

She nods and slips her hands up under his shirt, palming his belly and ribs. "This is helping," she says. "Keep talking."

 

"I'm with you," he says. He's not sure what the right words would be and he's just winging it, but it seems to be working. He can already feel the tremors easing, her breathing growing slower. "You're not there, you're not alone." He kisses her temple and her cheek, then her lips when she turns her face up, seeking more. 

 

They sit for a while; he strokes her back in long, lazy sweeps of his hand and she grows calm and steady. He's aware of Deacon casting them puzzled little glances from time to time, but he doesn't comment.

 

"Okay," she says eventually, and takes a deep breath. "I think I'm good."

 

He pulls her to her feet; she takes a few careful steps, testing her injured leg, and nods. Deacon eyes them both uncertainly. "What was that about?" he asks.

 

"Nothing," Emma says. "Let's go."

 

She takes point. The next hallway leads them to a room with an enormous metal door, heavy like it belongs to a bank vault. Deacon plays some kind of recording; sounds like another man's voice, repeating some code words. The door swings open with a hollow groan. 

 

There's a body sprawled on the floor inside. Deacon sighs and looks down at it. "So, Tommy Whispers didn't make it out," he says quietly. "He died protecting our secrets." He crouches, slipping one hand beneath the dead man's jacket. "Lemme see... there we go."

 

"What is it?" Emma asks.

 

Deacon stands and holds out a pistol; sleek, black, and compact, with a long suppressor and a smooth grip. "Tommy would want you to have his hand cannon. Don't let its size fool you; this is a very unique weapon. After seeing the way you shoot, I think it would be perfect for you."

 

Emma takes it, turning it over in her hands and examining the craftsmanship. "This has been very professionally customized," she says. "You've got someone in your organization who is quite the engineer."

 

"Yeah," Deacon says. "That's Tinker Tom's handiwork. You'll meet him soon enough. He's... a bit of a character, but I can't deny the man's a genius. In his own way."

 

Emma nods and sights down the pistol, getting a feel for it. "I like it. Thanks."

 

"Hey, I wouldn't have made it here without you," Deacon says. "Both of you," he adds, turning to MacCready. "I'm sure you realize this mission was about more than securing that prototype."

 

"You wanted to see us in action," MacCready says. "Up close."

 

A smile tugs at the corner of Deacon's mouth. "Well, I've already gotten the long-distance show, so yeah, I figured this would be a good chance to evaluate your form. See how you handle a real fight, and especially how you handle fighting synths."

 

"This isn't our first mission," Emma says. "We've both been using weapons since we were kids. Did you really think we couldn't handle it?"

 

"Nah, nothing like that," Deacon says. "Like I said earlier, you've got skills."

 

"There's something else," Emma says, watching him with narrowed eyes. 

 

"Hey, no psychic powers," he says, pointing at her. "I'm pretty sure that's cheating. Although, if you really can read minds, there are some people I've got to introduce you to. Ever played poker?"   
  


"Quit changing the subject," Emma says.

 

Deacon sighs and spreads his hands. "Look, you can't blame me for being worried. The problem isn't you - it's him." He nods at MacCready.

 

"What does that mean?" MacCready asks, stiffening.

 

"Easy, tiger," Deacon replies. "Nothing against you. As a general rule, the Railroad doesn't encourage personal relationships. People you're close to, people you care about - that's just one more way for the Institute to get to you. And we especially don't encourage it between our agents. Sometimes on a mission, it comes down to a choice between finishing the job, or saving your partner. For you two, it's pretty obvious that you'd save each other first, every time."

 

"Of course we would," Emma says sharply. "If that's going to be a problem for you, we may as well call it right here. I'm not going to work for an organization that asks me to make that kind of choice. Besides, you're acting like I'm your primary asset and MacCready is just the baggage you have to accept if you want me, which is bullshit. He's every bit as effective in a fight and you would be lucky to have him."

 

"Okay, I get it," Deacon says, holding his hands out. "And for the record, I agree with you. Caring about the people you're fighting beside isn't a weakness."

 

"So what's the problem?" MacCready asks.

 

He sighs. "I guess I just want to warn you of what we're up against here. When the Coursers start kicking down doors, they don't just hit Railroad safehouses. Some friends and family have been known to get axed. And you two? Are  _ super  _ obvious. Being in the Railroad means flying under the radar, and it means there's a good chance that the Institute is watching you. It's not gonna take them long to figure out your weak spot - if they haven't already."

 

MacCready feels a curl of unease at that, but Emma just lifts her chin and gives Deacon a hard look. "Too bad," she says. "I'm not giving him up."

 

"Yeah, that's sweet and all," Deacon says. "Maybe just try for a little more subtlety and a little less public sex, how's that?"

 

"You weren't complaining last time," Emma retorts.

 

Deacon shrugs; it's hard to tell behind the sunglasses, but MacCready thinks he's rolling his eyes. "Yeah, haha, you got me. Keep riding that one into the ground. But I've got a good point here and it wouldn't kill you to listen."

 

Emma scowls, then softens, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. I hear you. The closer I get to taking down the Institute, the bigger target I paint on my back - and on anyone who matters to me."

 

"It's not like I don't have enemies of my own," MacCready points out. "You're hardly leading me into a life of danger, here. This is familiar territory."

 

"Still," Emma says. "Let's not borrow trouble. We can be more discreet."

 

"See, that's all I'm asking," Deacon says. "Now, grab Carrington's prototype. You turn that over to Desdemona and she'll  _ have  _ to let you into our merry band."

 

The prototype turns out to be mercifully small and light; MacCready is glad because his pack is already heavily loaded with all the laser weapons he took off the synths on the way in. There's also a shortcut to get out, which is a relief. They emerge in the battered remains of the Slocum's Joe, and after knocking out a couple more synths and a couple turrets, they're in the clear. 

 

Deacon nods at them both and takes off, saying he'll meet them back at HQ. MacCready and Emma sit on a battered bench, shoulder to shoulder. She's got her face turned up into the morning light, eyes closed; he can feel the tension run out of her now that they're not underground anymore.

 

"That was... interesting," he says.

 

"Yeah." She gives him a sidelong glance. "Sorry about earlier; I got a little lost."

 

He shrugs and slips an arm around her waist. She leans in, sighing happily. "It's fine," he says. "I understand."

 

"I know you do." She's quiet for a while, then adds, "I'm not sure what Deacon was really trying to say at the end there."

 

"Who knows," MacCready says. "Half the time I think he believes his own lies."

 

"Maybe." She takes his hand, stroking her fingertips over his palm thoughtfully. "I think he's lost people. Not just the people in the Switchboard, although I could see he definitely felt it, seeing what was left of them. But people before then. I think he was trying to warn us for a reason; something he found out the hard way."

 

"Warn us about what, though?" he replies. "Don't ever care about someone because you might lose them? Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know. But that's no way to live."

 

She nods, then presses a kiss to his jaw. "Oops," she says, giving him a sly grin. "I guess that's not very discreet of me."

 

"Eh, whatever," MacCready says. "We'll keep it cool at the Railroad HQ if it makes them feel better. But let's be real - anybody with eyes is going to realize we're together. They probably thought it before we were even official. Totally your fault, by the way - you just can't keep your hands off me."

 

"Yeah, yeah," she says. "You love it."

 

_ Yeah _ , he thinks.  _ I do. _

 

~~~


	24. Creative Thinking

After the Switchboard, the new Railroad HQ is definitely a step down, MacCready thinks. It's literally a hole in the ground, all dusty brick and dirt floors. Still, at least it doesn't remind him of the lab. 

 

Deacon gives them a glowing introduction, embellished with wild exaggeration. Emma does not even try to back him up. At least Desdemona seems to expect this kind of behavior from him and doesn't pay it any mind.

 

She tries to give Emma a code name. It doesn't go over well.

 

"No," Emma says. "That's ridiculous. I told you my name when we met. Everyone here already knows it. Hell, Deacon knew it way before I came here, apparently. What's the point?"

 

"Operational security is at the core of what we do here," Desdemona says. "Code names are a part of that."

 

"No." Emma folds her arms. "You'll just have to make an exception in my case. I think I've proven to be useful enough to bend your rules a little."

 

Desdemona gives her a resigned look and sighs. "If you really insist, alright. I'm not sure why it's so important."

 

"It is," Emma replies evenly. "Thank you."

 

MacCready pulls her aside later, once they've gotten the tour (not that the HQ really needs much of a tour). "What was that about?" he asks. "With the code names?"

 

Emma glances at him and lowers her voice, leaning close. "When you were in the lab, do you remember what they called me?"

 

He has to think about it for a minute. "No? I don't think they ever called you anything."

 

"Exactly," she says. "I didn't have a name, there. Only people get names, and I guess they didn't think I qualified. Or maybe they had me listed in some file as by my project number, or some code title, or something. I always knew my name - I didn't remember having a home, or a family, or any life at all before the lab, but I knew I was Emma. But they would never use it."

 

"Oh," MacCready says. Which explains a little more about why she only ever gave him her first name; she probably doesn't know the rest. 

 

"What's your take on Tinker Tom?" she asks, glancing across the room at the Railroad's eccentric tech specialist. He's tapping away at a terminal, muttering to himself, half-dancing to some unheard music.

 

"Kinda nuts," MacCready says. "I can't believe he tried to convince you to get that shot with the battery acid."

 

She nods. "I can't tell at all. I'm having a very hard time reading him - I think it's that weird device he's wearing on his head. It's throwing a lot of interference."

 

"He seems like the kind of guy who planned it that way, just in case he came across any mind-readers."

 

"Yeah, probably." She tilts her head to the side, considering. "I have an idea and he's going to be essential for it, but I just feel strange about working with someone I can't see very well, you know?"

 

"I remember how weird it was right after the memory trip," he says. "How wrong it felt not to see people the way you do. So yeah, I get why that would throw you off. But the folks around here seem to trust him, and he does seem to know his stuff, even if he is a little on the crazy side."

 

She smiles at him. "Thanks, Bobby," she says. "You're right, and I am going to need his help. You watch him, okay? I'm too reliant on my abilities sometimes, I never really developed the knack for reading people the old-fashioned way. But I trust your judgment."

 

His first impulse is to touch her, to squeeze her hand or brush their shoulders together or any one of the million different unspoken ways they've developed to convey meaning without words. But they're trying to be circumspect as long as they're in the Railroad HQ and she's keeping her distance; he's a little surprised by how strange it feels to have her at arm's length. His fingers twitch and he finds himself eagerly looking forward to being out of this place and able to have her close again.

 

Emma approaches Tom, waving a little to get his attention. "Hey," she says, "remember that MILA project you told me about?"

 

"Oh yeah," he says. "My babies are gonna wire up the Commonwealth, just you wait. We'll have our eyes wide open. They think they can get past me? No sir, I am  _ all  _ over that."

 

"Right," Emma says. "How many of those things do you have?"

 

"Nine or ten. Why?"

 

She nods. "What do they pick up? Anything outside the visible light spectrum? Maybe infrared or ultraviolet? How about heat signatures, or maybe even underground structures?"

 

Tom brightens visibly, clearly delighted to talk about his project. "You bet they do! I got sensors on these the Institute never even dreamed of. We got your basic seismograph, right, but then I tweaked it out a bit, added my own special touches. Dez made me tack on some cameras but those are just plain vanilla compared to the optical detectors. We got night vision, heat vision, motion detectors, and my latest models are wired for sound, too. And, even better..." He pauses, glancing around, then adds in a gleeful whisper, "Digital recognition, baby! I've mapped out the heat and energy signatures of your basic lifeforms, so we can tell one from another."

 

Emma raises her eyebrows. "How detailed is that? Can it tell individual people apart?"

 

"Not yet, not yet," Tom says. "I'll get there. For now, this is just species recognition. Human, super mutant, ghoul, different types of animals, that kind of thing."

 

"I see," she says. "The one you showed me is pretty small; are they all like that? Light, mobile?"

 

"Sure are," he says. "I mean, they don't move on their own, you gotta carry 'em where you want them, but they shouldn't weigh you down much."

 

"Okay." She smiles at him. "Listen, your theory about the Institute terraforming the Commonwealth is... well, what if I told you I had another use for your devices? One that might help us track down a rogue ex-Institute scientist with crucial inside information?"

 

"Whoa," Tom says. "That's big time. You gotta tell Dez."

 

"I will," she says. "But for this to work, your MILAs have to be mobile, and they have to survive in the Glowing Sea."

 

Tom purses his lips, considering. "Radiation won't be a problem," he says. "My babies are shielded real well. But there's a lot of nasty critters wandering around out there. To cover the most ground and to keep them out of reach, what you really need is an aerial solution. They work best from up high anyway. I'm thinking... robots. Little, flying robots."

 

"I like it," Emma says. "Can you build them?"

 

"Not really my area," Tom replies. "But I know a guy. Real robot specialist, you know? He can make them sing, it's a thing of beauty. He's the one you want. Name's Mel. You gonna have to pay him, though. He doesn't work for free. And he's not one of us, so you gotta keep him in the dark about our little operation here. Dez isn't gonna like bringing in outside help."

 

"You let me handle that," she says. "Where can I find this Mel?"

 

Tom shrugs. "Last I heard, he was in Diamond City lockup. Tried to reprogram the robot bartender at the Tap House to give him free drinks."

 

MacCready grins. "I like this guy already."

 

~~~


	25. Mr. Robot

It's their first time in Diamond City together. MacCready keeps his hat pulled low and doesn't look too hard at any of the guards. He's not exactly a wanted criminal or anything, but he's also not real popular with the local security force. There may have been a few incidents involving a little petty theft and a lot of booze.

 

Emma already has the little line she gets between her eyebrows whenever they're around a lot of people all at once. Crowds tend to be exhausting for her; they don't linger in the market. 

 

The lockup is cool and dim after the bright daylight outside. Several guards are wandering around, all wearing that goofy armor that seems to be a Diamond City tradition. MacCready always finds himself wondering if it actually offers any real protection, or if they only wear it to keep the theme going. The cells are mostly empty; there's one guy sitting on a bench, staring across the room at the opposite wall, looking bored to death.

 

Emma strides right in like she belongs there; the guards glance at her, but none of them are interested enough to actually walk over and ask questions. The guy in the cell is skinny and scruffy, with a battered blue jacket and a shock of orange-red hair. He casts them a sidelong glance as they approach, eyes lingering on the weapons they're carrying.

 

"Mel?" Emma asks.

 

"Yeah, that's right," he says. "Can I help you?"

 

"I hear you're an expert with robotics. That true?"

 

Mel nods and leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "You heard right. I have a thing for robots." His gaze slides to MacCready, and he grins. "No, not that kind of thing. But I know my way around most machines. Why do you ask?"

 

"Good news," Emma says. "I'm getting you out of here."

 

Mel raises an eyebrow. "If so, maybe you shouldn't be announcing it so every guard in Diamond City can hear you."

 

"Don't worry," MacCready says. "We're doing this the easy way."

 

"Hope you brought a sackful of caps, then," Mel says. "Bribing these guys is expensive. Believe me, I've tried."

 

"I'll figure something out," Emma says. "Sit tight."

 

"Not like I got much of a choice," Mel replies.

 

She looks around, peering at each guard in turn, then nods at the one leaning against the wall in the corner. "That one," she says to MacCready. "He'll be the easiest to convince. You stay here."

 

MacCready leans against the bars, watching her. Beside him, Mel does the same. She walks up to the guard and leans in, putting a hand on his upper arm. Her manner is conspiratorial, murmuring to him as if they're sharing some confidence. The guard stands up a little straighter, lifting his chin; a slow smile spreads across his face. They speak for a minute and then the guard laughs and nods.

 

"What's she doing?" Mel asks.

 

"No idea," MacCready says. "Pretty sure it's working, though."

 

"Alright," the guard says, walking over to the cell door and jingling his keys. "You're free to go, buddy. Enjoy yourself." He gives Mel a lewd wink, then unlocks the door.

 

Mel and MacCready exchange an uncertain glance. "Let's just... get out of here," Mel says, hurrying out of his cell before the guard changes his mind.

 

They emerge from the security office to the afternoon sunlight and MacCready turns to Emma, raising his eyebrows. "What was that about?"

 

She grins. "I told him you were Mel's boyfriend and you just missed him too much to wait any longer."

 

MacCready sputters; Mel just laughs. "You did not," he says. "Seriously?"

 

"Hey, what can I say, the guy is a romantic at heart. I knew it'd work."

 

"Well, I've got to admit, I wouldn't mind," Mel says, giving MacCready a long, sweeping stare. "I was in lockup for a while, after all."

 

"Yeah, I'm gonna stop you right there," MacCready says. He turns to Emma. "You having fun?"

 

"Yep." She gives him a broad smile, eyes crinkling up at the corners. "What, don't you like redheads?"

 

"The freckles go all the way down, you know," Mel adds.

 

"Wow," MacCready mutters. "There's a mental image I didn't need. Could we stick to business here?"

 

"Yeah, he's got a point," Mel says. "I'm guessing you didn't bust me out just for shits and giggles. You got a job for me?"

 

"I do," Emma says. "Let's find somewhere private to talk."

 

They end up high in the east stands, climbing into the dusty bleachers until the city is laid out below them and they can see the crumbling buildings outside the wall. "Okay," Emma says, once they've all found reasonably stable seats. "The job is building robots. I'm going to need a bunch of them. They need to be small, capable of flight, and shielded against radiation."

 

Mel raises an eyebrow. "That's not going to come cheap."

 

"We'll talk price once we determine whether you can actually do it," MacCready says. 

 

"Oh, I can do it," Mel says, smirking at him. "Don't you worry about that."

 

"I need them to execute a search pattern," Emma says. "A coordinated search over a large and hostile area of land. I'll want to be able to direct the pattern remotely so I can have them focus in on areas of interest as needed."

 

"Large, hostile, and lots of rads," Mel says, ticking the points off on his fingers. "So - the Glowing Sea."

 

She nods. "I'm looking for someone."

 

"Out there? Who?"

 

"Don't worry about that," she says. "I'll also need the robots to be able to carry a small payload of sensor equipment. It will be light, but not especially aerodynamic, so you'll need to build with that in mind."

 

Mel gives a low whistle, shaking his head. "You're asking for a lot, here."

 

"It's important," Emma says evenly. 

 

"Well..." Mel taps his fingers together, thinking. "Can you get me an example of your sensor bundle so I can use in flight tests to make sure the balance is right?"

 

"I think I can swing that," she says.

 

He nods. "And you realize that anyone in the Glowing Sea is probably long dead, right? I mean, I get why you'd want to search with robots rather than people, but nothing survives out there."

 

"That's not your problem," MacCready says. 

 

"Yeah, I guess not," Mel says, shrugging. "So you need flight capability, rad shielding, long distance remote control, and you need the bots to network with each other to form a cohesive search pattern. They'll have to carry weight and they'll need a long lasting internal power source, because a search like this is going to take weeks. You two are running up quite a tab."

 

"Let's start with a prototype," Emma says. "Build me something that works, and I'll give you a fair price per unit on the rest of them."

 

"Hey, even the prototype is gonna cost you something," Mel says. "Materials aren't free, you know."

 

"We just got you out of jail," MacCready points out. "You owe us a favor."

 

"Yeah?" Mel says. "You going to sweeten the deal? Do anything to convince me?"

 

MacCready rolls his eyes, then looks at Emma. She laughs, shaking her head. "Afraid not, Mel. He's taken. But I'll front you fifty caps for the prototype, how's that?"

 

"A hundred," Mel counters. "The first one is the hardest - got to get all the bugs worked out. Once I've got the design down, the rest will be easy."

 

"Meaning the rest will be cheaper, right?" MacCready asks.

 

"A  _ little  _ cheaper," Mel says. "Hey, you get what you pay for. I'm worth it."

 

"I hope that's true," Emma says. "You've got a deal."


	26. Deacon Again

They're on their way back to Railroad HQ when Emma stops dead, looking at the burnt out remains of an old bookstore across the street. MacCready pulls his weapon and lifts it so he can use the scope; the bookstore windows are dirty and webbed with cracks and he can't see much inside.

 

"What is it?" he asks.

 

She sighs and shakes her head. "You're not gonna believe it."

 

He thinks for a moment, then lowers his weapon. "Deacon again?"

 

"Deacon again."

 

"What do you want to do?"

 

She frowns, considering. "I just don't get him. Why the stalking? He already got us to join his club. I'm starting to think he has some kind of thing for us."

 

MacCready snorts. "For  _ you _ , maybe."

 

She casts him a sidelong glance. "No... not just for me. But it's more complicated than that. I still have a hard time reading him."

 

He's getting his head around that one when Emma shrugs and crosses the street, headed for the bookstore. MacCready follows. The interior is dusty, dim, and smells like moldy paper and old glue. Deacon is sitting against the far wall, legs crossed, with a thick book open in his lap. 

 

Emma stands in front of him and folds her arms. "Seriously? Is this still a thing?"

 

Deacon stretches lazily and flips to the next page in his book. "What, a guy can't improve his mind a little?"

 

"It's the middle of the night," MacCready points out, "and you're wearing sunglasses. There's no way you can read any of that."

 

"Oh, yeah, I got my night vision surgically enhanced a few face changes ago. It's a great story, I'll tell you about it sometime."

 

Emma just looks at him for a long moment. "Why are you still following us?"

 

"Pull up a seat," Deacon says, patting the floor beside him. "You gotta try this. Do you like Proust?"

 

Emma and MacCready exchange glances, then sit down, settling across from Deacon. Emma tilts her head to the side, thoughtful. "I'm not sure what you want to say," she says, "but go ahead and say it. It's just going to keep bothering you otherwise."

 

Deacon frowns and closes his book. "I wish you'd stop doing that. It's totally cheating."

 

"I wish you'd stop stalking me," Emma replies. "Life is full of disappointments."

 

This actually gets a small, rueful chuckle out of him. "Yeah, okay," he says, nodding. "Business first. This thing you're putting together with Tinker Tom and his MILA project? You gotta be a little more careful. This is a serious, high stakes op and you haven't run it past Dez at all."

 

"I was just on my way to do that," Emma replies. "I wanted to make sure I had the robot angle covered first."

 

Deacon shakes his head. "Look, you're used to being the boss, I get it. You probably make all the big calls when it comes to the Minutemen. But with the Railroad, you're still the new fish, the rookie. Yeah, you kicked ass at the Switchboard, but that's one job, and you're already bending rules left and right."

 

"You're the one who wanted us to join up," MacCready says. "If you don't like the way we do things..."

 

"It's not like that," Deacon says, holding out a hand. "I'm on your side here, especially if you really can track down an ex-Institute scientist. That should absolutely be a priority for us, no question, and I'm sure Dez will agree, but you've got to do things in the right order."

 

"What does it matter? I tell her before or after I get it set up; same outcome either way."

 

"Not quite," Deacon says. "I've been running interference for you, which is the only reason she hasn't caught on already - Tinker Tom is not known for his ability to keep secrets. One of the many reasons he doesn't do field work. But I think you are underestimating how serious Dez can be about protocol and safety. You push too hard, and you're going to be out on your ass - with no access to Tom or his MILAs."

 

Emma frowns, then looks at MacCready. He nods and says, "Yeah, he's kinda got a point. I mean, no offense, but you tend to just jump in and take charge of every situation. You're not used to working for someone else. I totally understand why you hate being told what to do, but this is different. Sometimes you have to go along to get along, you know?"

 

She takes a deep breath, then lets it out in an irritated rush. "Fine," she says. "Okay. I'll play nice. But I've already started the ball rolling on this project; I can't undo it just to ask Desdemona for permission first."

 

"Ah, but you can build up a little more goodwill before you break the news to Dez," Deacon replies. "Do the Railroad a few solid favors, solve a few problems, save a few synths, and suddenly you're the golden child again and your past sins are forgiven. Believe me, I've followed that particular path a few times myself."

 

"Yeah, all right," Emma says. "I have to say, it seems like every time I see you, I get another lecture on how I should behave. Which frankly, is pretty damn rich coming from you."

 

Deacon nods and gives her a small, sheepish smile. "Yeah, uh, about that..."

 

She raises her eyebrows and leans back. "This should be good," she says. MacCready snorts.

 

"Here's the thing," Deacon says. "You've got huge potential. I mean, even this lead on an Institute scientist is closer than we've ever gotten to actually finding a way inside the Institute. And your plan to use robots and Tom's rigged up sensor things to search the Glowing Sea? That is  _ inspired.  _ I seriously think you could be the thing that tips the balance in our favor, but that only happens if you live long enough to do it. And after what happened at the Switchboard, I just... we lost too many people. Maybe I'm being over-cautious, I don't know. I'm normally a very easygoing guy. Ask anyone."

 

She gives him a long, considering look. "It was really hard for you, going back there. It got to you. And it was hard for you seeing us together, seeing what we have. That got to you, too."

 

Deacon shrugs and looks away. "Wow. So, this is way more openness and honesty than I typically like in my conversations. How about you dial that back a little, huh?"

 

"I'm afraid you're just going to have to get used to that," she says. "I don't really have an off switch."

 

"She's not kidding," MacCready adds. She elbows him in the side, grinning.

 

"Okay, so I'm just gonna skip right past that," Deacon says. "I've got a great mission to start you out on. Right up your alley. Involves solving a mystery."

 

"Yeah?" she says. "What kind of mystery?"

 

"We've had a few reports of weird activity around this little town west of here. Place called Covenant. Sometimes people go missing. Now usually, when someone goes missing in the Commonwealth we blame the Institute, but it doesn't quite add up this time. They don't usually focus on one location like that, and I've picked up a few rumors that suggest there is more going on in that town than meets the eye."

 

"And how does the Railroad come into it?" MacCready asks.

 

"The latest group to go missing was one of Stockton's caravans," Deacon says. "Old Man Stockton happens to be a very important friend of our organization, and one of the people in that caravan was his daughter, Amelia. He's very concerned about her, and naturally he called on his friends for help. If we can rescue her and figure out what's going on there, it'll go a long way toward building your rep in the Railroad."

 

"Uh-huh," Emma says. "But it sounds like you already poked around a little and came up empty-handed. What makes you think I can solve it?"

 

"Come on," Deacon says. "This'll be cake for you. Just walk in, read a few minds, you'll have it solved before lunch."

 

She rolls her eyes. "Again, I can't actually read minds."

 

"Then how'd you know my name?"

 

"You are really not letting that go, are you?" MacCready asks.

 

"Nope," Deacon replies. "I asked around. Nobody who knows me gave it to you. There's no way you could've just known that."

 

"You mad that somebody out-spied you?" Emma asks.

 

"Ah, but that's not what happened," Deacon shoots back. "Intel is what I do, and I've been at it for a long time. I know what works and what doesn't. You took a shortcut. So if it wasn't mind reading, what was it?"

 

"I don't  _ know,"  _ Emma says sharply. She takes a careful breath, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know," she repeats, quieter. "That never happened before, and it hasn't happened since. I'm not sure if I could do it again, even if I tried."

 

Deacon considers this for a moment. "So... the thing where you can tell if people are lying, and, you know... all the other stuff, how do you do that?"

 

"I'm not going to get into that with you," Emma says.

 

"Okay, don't tell me how," Deacon says. "Just tell me  _ what.  _ What can you get, exactly? If I brought you into a room with someone who might be an Institute informant, would you know? Or would I have to specifically ask them, and then you could tell if their answer was the truth? What if they just didn't answer?"

 

MacCready watches her, staying out of it. She wavers for a couple minutes, a deep line appearing between her eyebrows as she thinks it over. Deacon is quiet and patient, regarding her steadily.

 

"Okay," she says eventually, with a resigned sigh. "I can see how this is directly relevant to what you do; I get why you want to know. You actually know a lot of this already, and you've figured out some of the rest, so... I can fill in a few gaps for you. But don't push, Deacon. There are some questions I'm not going to answer."

 

"Fair enough," Deacon says.

 

"Mostly, I pick up emotions," Emma says. "Not thoughts, not facts or words or images. No details like that. I can get feelings, sometimes pretty complicated feelings. And I've got enough practice interpreting it to be right most of the time. So in your example with the informant, that would depend on whether they felt guilty before you asked the question, or after."

 

"Wow." Deacon leans back, pressing his fingertips together and tapping them against his lips. "Interesting."

 

"And right now, I can tell you're relieved," Emma continues. "You're glad I can't read actual thoughts. You were worried about what I'd see - something I'd figure out? Something you're ashamed of."

 

Deacon's jaw tightens. "Seriously, don't do that. You get to have secrets, so do I. That's off limits."

 

"Okay," Emma says, holding up a hand. "Sorry. I can't always... sometimes I'm not great at knowing where the lines are."

 

"Don't worry, that just means you're going to fit in real well with the Railroad," Deacon says. "We're one big dysfunctional family. With guns. It's awesome."

 

MacCready speaks up before the silence can get more awkward than it already is. "So, what's next? We go to Covenant?"

 

"Yep," Deacon says. "And I'm going with you."

 

"The creepy stalker way, or the normal sane person way?" MacCready asks.

 

"Aw, you think you're funny," Deacon says. "That's adorable."

 

Emma rolls her eyes. "Just walk with us if you're coming anyway."

 

"That's the plan," Deacon replies. "I'll also leave plenty of glowing progress reports for Dez in our dead drops, so she can be warming up to you while we're working. By the time we get back, they'll be writing songs about how amazing we are."

 

"Somehow I still feel like this is a ploy to make you look good," MacCready mutters.

 

"Nah," Deacon says. "I don't have to work at that. It just happens."

 

~~~


	27. Quickie

Covenant is pretty far to the northwest from where they are, and Emma and MacCready are already tired; they'd only caught a few hours of sleep in Diamond City. When it starts to rain, they jump on the excuse to hole up in a crumbling apartment building and wait it out.

 

The place is mostly empty; they have to shoot a few raiders but it doesn't take long. They find an apartment with a mostly intact roof and a couple of decent beds. MacCready drags a dead raider out of the room and shoves him through a hole in the wall, tumbling him out onto the street below. He lays a few mines on his way back, making sure the entrances are covered. They'll pick them back up on the way out, assuming they don't have any company in the meantime.

 

Emma gets a small fire going in an old doorless fridge, enough to heat up their leftover noodle cups. She also lays their blanket out on one of the beds; MacCready notices she's chosen the one up against the wall, just as he prefers. They do all of this without conversation; it's an easy and efficient process by this point, after so long on the road together.

 

They're halfway through stripping out of their wet clothes when he remembers Deacon. The guy does have kind of a knack for fading into the background; he's sitting on the other bed, watching them with a faintly amused look. Somewhere along the line he's already managed to change clothes (MacCready isn't sure where he keeps all his spare outfits, or why he has so many).

 

"Don't let me stop you," Deacon says, raising an eyebrow. "By all means, make yourselves comfortable."

 

MacCready sighs, grabs his dry clothes, and goes out into the hall to change. Emma follows him. 

 

"I guess it's kind of silly," Emma points out quietly. "I mean... it's nothing he hasn't seen, at this point."

 

MacCready looks up at her. She's down to her underwear and a tee shirt, her hair damp and curling around her face, her skin faintly luminous in the little bit of firelight that seeps into the hall. He's moving before he has time to think about it, crowding close and pressing against her, relishing the feel of her against his bare chest. She grins and kisses him, one hand curled around the back of his neck, drawing him in.

 

"Didn't get enough at the Dugout Inn?" she asks, low and teasing.

 

"Never," he replies, and nips at her neck. "Never enough."

 

"You know Deacon is right around the corner," she points out.

 

"Like you said - nothing he hasn't seen before."

 

She laughs and kisses him harder, one hand sliding down his back, toying with the waist of his pants. Her fingertips dip just beneath the edge of the material, cool and soft. He rolls his hips, rubbing up against her belly, and she makes a sound low in her throat. "Seems a shame," she says, "to be out here in this dirty hallway when there's a perfectly good bed in the other room."

 

For a moment, he considers it. What would Deacon do, if they actually went back in the room and kept going, right there in front of him? Would he leave? Look away and pretend to ignore it? Or would he enjoy the show, just like last time? If they did this, he'd be able to look up and see Deacon watching, see him get turned on and desperate, see him unable to resist getting off. They'd be on display, right up close. The idea sends a complicated rush of feeling through him, too tangled and fast to even begin to understand. 

 

"Too much," Emma says, nodding. "Yeah. Too soon for that, I think."

 

"Yeah," MacCready agrees, but he's hard, his body wide awake and flushed with heat, his skin tingling every place they touch. Even the thought of it is enough to make him shiver and squirm in some strange combination of shame and arousal. Deacon can probably hear them breathing hard, can hear the slide of skin and the soft, wet sound of kisses. He's probably picturing what they're doing right now. 

 

"I'm going to suck you," Emma murmurs in his ear, and he muffles a low groan against her shoulder. "You have to be quiet," she adds. "But not  _ too  _ quiet."

 

He nods and presses one hand to his mouth, biting at his knuckles. She slides down his body, kissing his chest on the way. He shudders at the feel of her sharp teeth on his nipples, just enough pressure to hurt, then her tongue, soothing and slick. He's already shifting impatiently, hips thrusting against nothing, his free hand clenched at his side. The wall is rough against his back and he's hyper aware of every sound they're making, how loud they must seem in the still, empty building.

 

She rubs him through his pants, giving him the heel of her hand to grind against and he's unable to suppress a sharp, short cry. His head thumps back against the wall and he closes his eyes. Emma's hands are shockingly cool against his skin, deft and eager, unzipping his pants and pushing them open. Then her mouth is there, soft and slick and warm, lush sweetness that wraps around him and draws him in.

 

"Oh god," he mutters, the words muffled against his hand. "Oh, oh fuck, Emma please..."

 

He looks down at her, and she meets his eyes, grinning around his dick. Just the sight of it, of her mouth stretched over him, lips red and snug, eyes dark, her cheeks flushed with arousal... he moans and his hips stutter forward instinctively. She gets both hands on his hips and pins him hard against the wall. His knees wobble and he whines low in his throat. "Yeah," he mumbles, "yeah, hold me down, make me... oh it's gonna be quick, I can't, that's so good, your  _ mouth _ , Emma, you don't even know, it's so good."

 

It occurs to him that he's not being especially quiet and Deacon almost certainly heard every word of that and knows exactly what they're doing. Emma finds her pace and works him merciless and fast, tongue rubbing just where he likes it. His breath is coming in helpless gasps and pleasure coils hot and tight in his belly, racing along his spine and tingling in the palms of his hands.

 

He wonders if Deacon is jerking off in the room behind them, maybe just rubbing himself through his pants, rushing to finish before they come back in and catch him. Or maybe he's resisting, hands clutching the mattress to keep from touching himself, biting his lip until it hurts. Maybe they'll walk back in the room to find him aching and desperate, begging for that last little push to finish him off.

 

Emma moans around him, the vibrations shivering over his skin and making his balls draw up snug against his body. She's got her eyes closed and she's squirming, legs shifting and thighs pressing together. She takes him deep and swallows and he can't, he can't hold on anymore. He tries to say something but he's still got his hand over his mouth and all that comes out is a garbled cry. She doesn't let up for a second.

 

He comes hard, with a long, low moan that sounds shockingly loud. He's still shivering and twitching with aftershocks when she stands and wraps herself around him, wriggling until she can get his thigh between her legs and grind up against it. She presses feverish kisses to his neck, mouthing roughly at the skin, teeth scraping. "Please, Bobby," she mumbles, "I have to, please, please..."

 

He grabs her ass with both hands, lifting until she can rest her full weight on his leg, rocking there. Her panties feel damp against his skin, and she's radiating heat, body flushed and trembling. She rolls her hips in tight little circles and he ducks his head, dropping firm, sucking kisses along the line of her collarbone. 

 

"What's he doing?" MacCready whispers in her ear, and then he takes her earlobe between his lips and flicks it with the tip of his tongue.

 

"He's, um," she pants, then whimpers and rocks her hips harder. "Oh, he wants, he knows what we're doing and he wants, but he won't do it this time."

 

"Yeah?" MacCready says. "Think he can make it?"

 

"Don't know. It's close." She shudders, clutching at him. " _ I'm _ close. Touch me, I want your hands, and put your mouth on me."

 

He grins - he loves it when she takes charge. He gets one hand where she's grinding up against him and tugs her panties aside, then rubs his fingertips in rapid strokes over her clit. He cups one of her breasts in his other hand and mouths at her nipple through the thin material of her tee shirt, sucking until the cotton is damp and her nipple stands out in sharp relief. 

 

It doesn't take long when she's this worked up and soon she's gasping and biting his shoulder, legs squeezing tight around his wrist and fingernails sharp on his back. He takes her through it, leaning back to watch her face, to see the flickers of pleasure written there. He loves the way she goes soft and sleepy when she's just come, her eyes hazy and dark. 

 

They cling to each other, leaning up against the wall. Emma stretches, long and lazy, and then laughs softly. "This might not be entirely fair to Deacon," she murmurs. "Poor guy."

 

MacCready shrugs. "Yeah, maybe, but it sure is fun."

 

They linger for a couple minutes, exchanging sleepy kisses, listening to the rain patter down outside. Eventually they get dressed. Emma walks back into the room with a studied, casual air; MacCready follows her lead. Deacon is sprawled easily on his bed, legs crossed and hands laced behind his head. He cocks an insouciant eyebrow at them. "Hi there," he says. "You guys get lost?"

 

"Nah," MacCready says. "Why? Did you miss us?"

 

"I'm pretty sure he didn't miss a thing," Emma says. She grins at Deacon. "Maybe you'd like to go for a little walk? Take care of a few things before bed?"

 

"Nope," Deacon says cheerily. "I'm all set."

 

Emma and MacCready exchange a glance. "Okay," MacCready says. "If you say so." He stretches and yawns theatrically. "I could go for a nap."

 

"Great idea," Emma says, and leads him over to the bed.

 

They curl up together, MacCready with his back to the wall and Emma tucked against his chest. It's familiar and comfortable at this point and he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. She makes a pleased hum and takes his hand, then presses a kiss to his palm. He strokes his knuckles over her cheek. Then he glances up - Deacon is watching, face blank and eyes hidden, as always, behind his sunglasses.

 

For a moment, MacCready feels weirdly naked. It was one thing knowing Deacon could hear them having sex - that was dirty and exciting and fun. This is different; more intimate. A cold flicker of guilt coils in his chest. There's something mean about doing this in front of Deacon. If Emma is right about him losing someone, then this just feels like salt in the wound. 

 

He has the sudden impulse to scoot back, lift the blanket, and make room for one more. Invite Deacon in for a while - maybe to make up for all the teasing, or maybe just because it would feel good. They'd keep Emma in the middle, he thinks; she'd love that. And Deacon would probably scoff and grumble and act like he's doing them some huge favor, but he's pretty sure Deacon would love it, too. Because Emma was right - he is lonely. MacCready doesn't need the glow to see that.

 

He doesn't do any of those things, though. It feels like too much, too soon. He just keeps quiet as Emma's breathing lengthens into the long, slow pattern of sleep. After a while, Deacon turns on his side, facing the wall. It's a kind of unspoken trust, sleeping with his back vulnerable and exposed, dropping his guard at least that much. It's a start.

 

~~~


	28. Welcome to Covenant

From the outside, Covenant looks like a fortress; thick concrete walls, razor wire, and mounted turrets. Emma likes a lot of defenses for her settlements, but this is over the top even by her standards. There's only one entrance, and the door is solidly locked. A man in a leather jacket sits outside by a small guard post, watching their approach.

 

"You here visiting Covenant?" the man asks. "If not, move along."

 

"I might take a look," Emma says. 

 

"Well, we don't just let anyone inside. There's an entrance test. We call it the safe test. Everyone's gotta take it."

 

Emma narrows her eyes. "A test. Great. Love those."

 

"Listen," the man says. "We wanna make sure only good people come into Covenant. No... undesirables. Nobody that ain't actually what they seem, you know?"

 

Behind her, Deacon and MacCready exchange a glance, but keep quiet. Emma folds her arms; her voice is flat and cold. "And who exactly do you consider undesirable?"

 

The man gives her a disbelieving look. "What, you don't know about... jesus, lady, not everyone in the Commonwealth is human, okay? Some are... synths." His voice drops to a whisper at the end. MacCready rolls his eyes.

 

"I'm not gonna say any more than that," the man continues. "Just take the test. If you pass, you can come inside, where it's safe."

 

Emma looks at him for a long moment, then glances over her shoulder at them. Deacon gives her a little nod. She sighs, then turns back to the guard. "Fine. Let's do it."

 

"Good. Take a seat, and we can begin."

 

MacCready wonders if they'll all be expected to take this test, and what they'll do if Emma doesn't pass. He leans against the wall, watching as Emma perches uneasily on the seat across from the man's desk. It reminds him of sessions in the lab classroom, when the speaker would read off rapid-fire questions and there would be punishments if she missed any. He can see she's getting the same association; her expression is grim and set and her shoulders are tense. Beside him, Deacon lights a cigarette and radiates laconic ease, but MacCready doesn't believe it; he's paying close attention.

 

"Alright," the man begins. "I'm Swanson, by the way. And don't worry, there ain't no wrong answers."

 

Somehow, MacCready doubts that's true.

 

"First question. You are approached by a frenzied scientist, who says, 'I'm going to put my quantum harmonizer in your photonic resonation chamber!' What's your response?"

 

Emma gives him a skeptical look. "Seriously?"

 

"Answer the question."

 

MacCready winces - that is exactly the wrong tone to take with her. He checks the grip of his rifle, making sure he can draw it quickly if this turns ugly. 

 

Emma leans forward in her chair, and her hand drops to the pistol on her hip, but she doesn't pull it. "I'd tell him to go ahead and try," she says.

 

Swanson blinks. "You'd... I haven't heard that one before. Okay. Next question: While working as an intern in the Clinic, a patient with a strange infection on his foot stumbles through the door. The infection is spreading at an alarming rate, but the doctor has stepped out for a while. What do you do?"

 

"Isolate him in quarantine before he infects anyone else."

 

"And that's all you'd do? No attempt to treat him?"

 

"Not without knowing more," Emma replies. "Any treatment without a proper diagnosis might only make the problem worse."

 

"Hmm." Swanson scribbles something on his clipboard. "Alright. Question three: You discover a young boy lost in a cave. He's hungry and frightened, but also appears to be in possession of stolen property. What do you do?"

 

Emma glances over at MacCready and meets his eyes for a moment. "I'd help him," she says. "Give him food, try to find his home."

 

"And the stolen property?"

 

She shrugs. "Lots of reasons that people steal. He probably just wanted to eat."

 

"Interesting," Swanson mutters. "Next question. Congratulations! You made it onto a baseball team. Which position do you prefer?"

 

Emma frowns. "What's baseball?"

 

Swanson stares at her. Deacon rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. MacCready suddenly understands why she looked so confused when Moe Cronin tried to sell her a Swatter.

 

"You've... never heard of baseball?" Swanson asks.

 

"I mean, it sounds like a sport, based on the question," she says. "But sports weren't really part of my, uh... upbringing."

 

"That's... probably not the right answer," Deacon mutters under his breath. MacCready gives a slight nod.

 

Swanson considers this for a long moment. When he moves onto the next question, his manner is distinctly colder. "Fine. Next. Your grandmother invites you to tea, but you're surprised when she gives you a pistol and orders you to kill someone. What do you do?"

 

"Ask for more details on the target," Emma says.

 

"More... details," Swanson echoes. "Why?"

 

"So I know why she wants him dead," she replies. "Maybe it's someone who's been threatening her. Maybe he's a dangerous man and killing him is the right call. Without details, I can't make that decision."

 

"Sure. Very logical." Swanson gives her a narrow look. "Old Mr. Abernathy has locked himself in his quarters again, and you've been ordered to get him out. How do you proceed?"

 

"Why did he lock himself in?" she asks. "And why has it happened more than once?"

 

Swanson sighs and puts his clipboard down. "Look, I don't think you're really getting the point of this test. You're not supposed to argue. Just answer the questions."

 

"The questions are stupid," Emma says evenly. "You're not going to learn anything from this."

 

Swanson gives an impatient huff. "Come on lady, there are only two more questions. Answer this one and we can move on."

 

She scowls, then sighs and throws her hands up. "Fine. I'd pick the lock. Which doesn't solve the underlying problem, but whatever."

 

"Thank you," Swanson mutters, exasperated. "Next: Oh no! You've been exposed to radiation, and a mutated hand has grown out of your stomach. What's the best course of treatment?"

 

Emma gives him a disbelieving look. "You've got to be kidding me. Every single person in the Commonwealth, both of us included, has been exposed to radiation at one time or another. Nobody grows mutated hands. That's not how it works. You get sick, and then you either die, or turn into a ghoul."

 

Swanson slams the clipboard down on his desk. "Okay, you know what? Forget it. You don't get in."

 

"What? That's ridiculous," Emma snaps. "I took your test. Your questions are terrible. This whole thing doesn't make any sense. What are you even hoping to learn? Anyone could just make up whatever crap they wanted. Has it somehow escaped your notice that people lie all the time?"

 

"I don't care if you don't like the questions," Swanson says. "You answer them, or you don't get into Covenant. It's that simple. And I don't like your attitude."

 

Deacon pushes away from the wall, strolling up to both of them with a friendly grin. "Easy there, buddy," he says. "Hey, I get it, you're just trying to do your job. My friend here is kind of a nervous test taker, that's all. You know how some people get. What if she promises to be good and answer your last two questions?"

 

"Too late," Swanson says. 

 

"Come on," Deacon says, low and cajoling. "This is a trading post, right? She's got caps. Lots of them. Plus, some important connections to the Commonwealth settlement trading and provisioner network. I promise, no more arguing. We're close to the end of the test, right? And I bet you're getting all sorts of interesting data. Don't you want to see how she answers the rest?"

 

"Well..." Swanson gives her a suspicious look. "If she's actually going to answer properly... okay. But no more back talk."

 

"No problem," Deacon says smoothly. He puts a hand on Emma's shoulder, squeezing. "Right?"

 

She glares at him, then gives a resigned sigh. "Fine."

 

"So," Swanson says. "The radiation and the mutated hand?"

 

MacCready can see her gritting her teeth from where he's standing, but she answers. "Radaway to remove the rads and stop the mutation, and then surgery to remove the limb."

 

Swanson nods, apparently satisfied. "Fine. Last question. You decide it would be fun to play a prank on your father. You enter his private restroom when no one is looking, and..."

 

Emma opens her mouth, then shuts it again with a click, biting back her first reply. "Blue dye in his soap," she says after a moment. 

 

"Okay," Swanson says, writing something down. "That's it. Nobody's ever answered quite like you, as I'm sure you figured out by now. You're damn lucky I'm feeling generous tonight. You passed."

 

"If there are no wrong answers, doesn't everyone pass?" Emma asks. 

 

Swanson gives her a hard look. "You want in, or not?"

 

"We want in," Deacon says. "She's totally shutting up now, don't worry."

 

Swanson grumbles, but unlocks the door, opening it for them. "I'll have my eye on you three," he says. "We don't want troublemakers in Covenant. This is a nice little town. See that it stays that way."

 

"You bet," Deacon replies. "No trouble from us, boss." He nudges Emma toward the door.

 

She stomps through, MacCready and Deacon on her heels. The door closes behind them. She turns immediately, scowling at Deacon - he holds up a hand, shaking his head. "I know, it's a great town, right? So cozy. People everywhere. Don't you think?"

 

Emma narrows her eyes, then glances around. She nods slowly. "Yeah," she says. "Plenty of neighbors. I see that."

 

MacCready doesn't miss the message here - they're in the middle of town and they've got an audience. He eyes the houses arranged in a circle around the central courtyard. They're all pristine, like somehow the war didn't happen here. There's a small farm plot in one corner with a few settlers pulling weeds, and he can see several more people walking around, or sitting in chairs on the front porches of the houses. A battered Mr. Handy hovers between a couple houses further in, shouting something about free lemonade. Nobody is looking at them directly, but it's a small place and their arrival can't have gone unnoticed. The entire set up feels fake, like a thin veneer of normality. 

 

"Let's walk around a little," he says, and tucks his arm through Emma's, drawing her closer. She's still bristling over the whole "safe test" thing but she settles a little and leans on him, flashing a quick smile. 

 

Deacon nods and starts off at a casual stroll. It only takes him a few steps to fit neatly in with the other settlers, his dusty, nondescript clothes and his blank, anonymous sunglasses somehow making him blend. He ambles like he's got all the time in the world, radiating non-threatening vibes. MacCready can see how the guy manages to slip in to most places unnoticed.

 

They wind in a loop around the central circle of houses, following his lead. Deacon nods a greeting to a few people, accepts a free lemonade from Deezer, and pokes his head into the bunkhouse and the local shop. They don't talk to anyone, but MacCready can feel Emma concentrating beside him, taking everything in. He tries to keep his manner calm and light, like Deacon, but he also takes the chance to count the settlers and think about escape routes if things get hairy. Nobody is visibly armed, but he thinks there's a good chance the weapons will come out quick if they decide it's necessary. Despite the general bright cleanliness and the broad, welcoming smile that the shopkeeper gives them, he feels very much like an outsider here.

 

The second loop takes them along the wall, in the narrow gap between the houses and the thick concrete. Deacon pauses in the back corner, with the hum of a turret loud over their heads and the nearest house hiding them from the rest of the town. He turns to Emma and raises an eyebrow. "So," he says. "Subtlety and diplomacy are not really your thing, huh?"

 

She scowls. "That test was bullshit, and you know it."

 

"Swanson didn't think so," Deacon points out. "He took it very seriously."

 

"But that doesn't make sense," MacCready says. "What were they even testing for?"

 

"What do you think?" Deacon replies.

 

"For synths, obviously," Emma says. "He basically said as much in the beginning. That whole spiel about undesirables."

 

"Does that work, though?" MacCready asks. "I mean, is that possible?"

 

"No," Emma says flatly. "And even if it were, that test wouldn't do it. I don't know where they dug up those questions but it was more like some kind of cheap personality profile." She turns to Deacon. "There's a bigger question here - what happens to the people who fail the test?"

 

He nods slowly. "I'm guessing they're the ones who disappear."

 

"Like Stockton's caravan," MacCready says. "But these people aren't going to admit to anything. This whole town creeps me out."

 

"Ah, but that's why we brought our secret weapon," Deacon says, smiling at Emma. "How about it - did you pick anything up out there?"

 

"Plenty," she says. "But I don't know how much it's going to help you. MacCready is right; they're liars. A lot of fake politeness layered over suspicion and hostility. There is definitely something deeper going on here, and several of them are in on it. We might have a different problem, though."

 

"Oh good," MacCready mutters. "We needed more of those."

 

She gives him a rueful grin. "Swanson really didn't like my answers. Especially the one about baseball, although I'm not sure why. I think I may have actually failed that test."

 

"Then why'd they let us in?" MacCready asks.

 

"Maybe that's how they do it," Deacon replies. "Let everyone in so people drop their guard. You noticed the bunkhouse, right? I'm betting they wait until their targets fall asleep and snatch them at night - or maybe they follow people after they leave town, and hit them on the road."

 

"Is that what happened to the caravan?" Emma asks. "I mean, a caravan has stuff. Brahmin, shipments, supplies, guards - it doesn't just vanish into thin air. Where are the remains?"

 

"On the road north of here," Deacon says. "One of our runners found it when we first tried to probe this place for information. Couple of guards were dead, but the rest of them, including Amelia Stockton, were missing."

 

"But did that happen before they came here, or after?" MacCready asks.

 

"After," Deacon says. "The runner gave me a full list of what he found, and it included some of that lemonade Deezer hands out. They were definitely in Covenant."

 

Emma frowns thoughtfully. "Okay. So let's put it together. The caravan comes to town and they take that stupid test. At least some of them don't pass. Swanson lets them in anyway, and they're watched closely while in town but nobody is overtly hostile. When they leave, they're followed, and attacked on a road nearby. A couple guards die trying to defend them. The survivors are taken somewhere."

 

"Maybe this works in our favor," Deacon says. "If they try the same thing with us, we could let ourselves be taken. Then we find out exactly where they took Amelia, and what they're doing. We could break out from the inside."

 

"No," Emma says immediately. "I'm not doing that. These are the kind of people who lock you up in a room underground and test you. No way."

 

"I'm with her on this," MacCready agrees. "You know they'd take our weapons if we were captured. We'd be separated, locked up, and helpless. That is not a good position to fight our way out of anything."

 

"Okay, so that leaves questioning people," Deacon says. "But if you're right about failing that test, they're definitely not going to be willing to talk to you."

 

"You ask the questions," Emma replies. "I'll just watch. They probably won't attack us while we're in town; it would spoil the illusion they've got going here." She pauses, then leans in, lowering her voice further. "And listen, you be careful about what information you share. These are exactly the people who would want to use what I can do for their own purposes. You know?"

 

"Of course," Deacon says. "I don't want that any more than you do."

 

She gives him a long, steady look. "Okay. You mean that. I'm trusting you a lot here, Deacon. This is not a safe place for me. You understand?"

 

"I got it," Deacon says. "Seriously. I hear you."

 

"Okay," she says. MacCready takes her hand, watching her. She gives him a faint smile. The thing is, he can imagine it all too well - these people finding out that she can detect synths, and then somehow trying to force her to work for them. Probably the same way the people at the lab did, treating her like a tool or a weapon they can use as they wish, keeping her isolated and controlled. She's got to be thinking the same thing. He can feel her trembling as her fingers close tight around his.

 

They put on their best casual faces and walk out into the town again. Deacon is easygoing and laid back, his questions coming across more as idle conversation than any kind of interrogation. He never directly mentions the caravan; it's oblique chit-chat about visitors and trade and what it's like to live in Covenant. MacCready has to admit, the man is good at what he does. They bounce around the town in no particular order.

 

Deacon does a little business with Penny, the local shopkeeper, and engages her in conversation about trade in the Commonwealth and her role in Covenant. She is bright and cheery and entirely artificial, but MacCready picks up on a few odd details. He also notices that the prices here are out of line with the usual going rates. He's very familiar with how many caps he can usually get for selling all sorts of things, and Penny is definitely overpaying. 

 

They swing by Talia, the nervous lady by the workbench, and she chatters at them for a little while. Deacon's manner with her is low and soothing; she responds well, warming to the conversation. MacCready catches her looking to the side, at an older man in a suit leaning against a house, watching them. Once she sees him, she freezes up and claims to be too busy to talk.

 

Deacon doesn't miss this. He strolls up to the guy in the suit. "Hi there," he says. "We're new in town. Nice place, isn't it?"

 

"Sure is," the man replies. "My name's Jacob, and I'm in charge around here. I hope you're enjoying your stay."

 

"Definitely," Deacon says. "This place almost looks Pre-War. That must be tough to maintain, how do you manage that?"

 

"With hard work and dedication, of course," Jacob replies. "Anything is possible when you pull together as a community. And of course, Penny's trading post keeps us well supplied. Have you met Penny yet?"

 

"Oh, yeah," Deacon says. "Great lady. A real asset to your town, I'm sure."

 

"Oh, yes," Jacob says. "But any settlement can offer a trading post. To compete with Diamond City and Bunker Hill, we offer something they don't: comfort and civility."

 

MacCready refrains from rolling his eyes. He can feel how tense Emma is beside him, focused hard on Jacob. 

 

"Well, it's nice," Deacon says. "Refreshing."

 

"I'm glad you think so," Jacob replies. "You enjoy your time here."

 

Deacon tips the man a friendly nod and they wander on past, continuing their slow, aimless circuit of the town. It feels like a peaceful stroll, but MacCready notices that Deacon makes a point of talking to every single person, and doesn't visit the same one twice. It is a thorough and methodical search dressed up as idle chatter.

 

The day wanes, and the sun has set by the time they're finished. They wind up back in the same corner, hidden from view, any sound they make covered by the rumbling turret overhead. "Okay," Deacon says. "What do you think?"

 

"Jacob is the key," Emma replies. "Most of them are in on it, but he's the one with all the information."

 

"He's not gonna talk though," MacCready adds. "We might have a better chance of getting information out of Talia or Penny. I think Deacon was wearing them down."

 

"Well, I am charming," Deacon says, "but the trick will be getting them somewhere private. They're both very aware of being watched here."

 

Emma shakes her head. "They're not about to leave town with us, especially if we're marked to 'disappear' as soon as we go outside those gates. And I'm pretty sure we are. Jacob put on a good face, but there was a serious core of hatred and disgust. Mostly for me."

 

Deacon grimaces. "Okay. What if Jacob didn't need to talk?"

 

"I'm not following you," MacCready says. "You want to search his room or something?"

 

"Yeah, that too, but I'm thinking something a little more direct." 

 

Emma narrows her eyes. "We've talked about this. I'm not a mind reader."

 

"Okay, except you kind of are," Deacon replies. "We could at least give it a shot."

 

"Wait, how would that even work?" MacCready asks. "When she tried it with you, she was touching you. This guy hates us; he's not about to stand there and put up with that."

 

"We get him while he's sleeping," Deacon replies. "I'm thinking we go to the bunkhouse, act like we're going to sleep for the night. We wait until it's real late and most everyone is asleep, and then we sneak out. Break into his house, Emma does her trick, and we poke around while she's at it, see what we can find. From there, we can search a few more places. Maybe she'll be able to give us an idea of where to look."

 

"I don't like it," Emma says. "I can't promise you this is going to work. It only worked the one time and I'm not even that sure how I did it."

 

Deacon shrugs. "Hey, I want to break into his place either way, just to search it. If you get something, great. If not, we'll find another way. All I'm saying is it couldn't hurt to try."

 

"Alright," Emma says reluctantly. "I'll see what I can do."

 

~~~


	29. Breaking In

They don't actually sleep. Emma is far too tense to fall asleep, taut and quivering like a live wire beside him in the bed. MacCready himself is on alert, listening for anyone trying to slip into the bunkhouse. Their theory is that nobody will try to take them until they leave town, but he's not willing to just assume they're safe here. He keeps one arm around Emma and the other on his shotgun.

 

In the other bunk, Deacon is still and quiet, but MacCready is pretty sure he's awake, too. It's a long few hours, grimly waiting out the night until the town is dead quiet outside. Emma stirs restlessly, then lifts her head, looking around. MacCready sits up beside her. Deacon watches them, then drops his feet silently to the floor.

 

Emma nods. "They're all asleep," she whispers. "Except the guard outside the gate, but he shouldn't see us."

 

They creep out of the bunkhouse, past another sleeping traveler. It's a cold night, damp and drizzly, and MacCready shivers. The security lights cast a foggy halo in the wet air and the soft sounds of their footsteps are quickly swallowed up in the ever-present hum of the turrets. Emma leads them around the side of one of the houses, to a back door. She presses her palm against it and closes her eyes. MacCready takes her other hand when she reaches for him.

 

"Two inside," she murmurs. "One of them is Jacob. Both sleeping."

 

Deacon nods, but says nothing. She crouches and pulls out a bobby pin, making quick work of the lock. The door opens soundlessly on well oiled hinges and they go in.

 

Trespassing is not exactly new to MacCready, but he typically doesn't like to do it when the owners are there. It feels strange to be standing over the sleeping people, invading their home. He's hyper aware of every sound they make, every rustle of clothing and faint whisper of paper as Deacon starts to rifle through their bedside table. 

 

Jacob is sprawled on his back, the covers pulled to his chest. He's shirtless, his bare shoulders and one arm exposed. Emma sidles closer, then kneels by the bed. MacCready drops down beside her and takes her hand. She squeezes hard; the look she gives him is quick and unreadable in the dim room. Deacon stands at the foot of the bed and watches them, his weapon ready in one hand - just in case. He nods to Emma; she takes a deep breath and nods back.

 

She rests her hand on Jacob's shoulder, starting with just the barest graze of her fingertips, then slowly flattening her palm. MacCready watches her face. She's intent and focused, a line appearing between her brows and her jaw clenched. He can feel little tremors coursing through her. Then, slowly, her breathing evens out and her hand grows limp in his. She leans against him, head drooping until her chin touches her chest. On the bed, Jacob breathes in, and she does the same. Then out, together. In, then out, over and over, in perfect sync. It's hypnotic to watch.

 

MacCready glances over at Deacon and raises his eyebrows, questioning. Deacon shrugs and shakes his head. 

 

He looks back at Emma, then gives her hand a little tug. She doesn't respond. Her face is slack and expressionless, her mouth slightly open. MacCready hesitates, watching her. 

 

Deacon crouches beside them and whispers, a bare breath of sound against MacCready's ear, mindful of the sleeping man right in front of them. "Is this supposed to happen?"

 

"I don't know," MacCready whispers back. "She told you this was new. But I don't like it, this feels weird. It didn't happen like this with you."

 

Deacon nods. "Maybe it's working."

 

MacCready frowns, looking at her face again. Still empty, and she's still breathing in time with Jacob. "We shouldn't have done this. I don't think it's safe."

 

"Yeah," Deacon replies slowly. "You might be right." He reaches out and takes Emma's wrist, lifting her hand away from Jacob's shoulder with a quick, deft movement. Jacob twitches and mutters, then falls quiet again. Emma slumps to the side, leaning heavily against MacCready. He gets an arm around her waist and tries to stand. Deacon slips around her other side and helps. They haul her out of the house as quietly as possible, her toes dragging on the floor.

 

They huddle between the house and the outer wall. MacCready sits her up on the ground, leaning against the wall. He touches her face, patting her a little. "Come on, Emma," he says quietly. "Wake up now, come on."

 

Deacon crouches next to them and presses two fingers to her throat, taking her pulse. "Seems good," he says, frowning. "Maybe she just needs a minute."

 

"Yeah. Maybe." MacCready smoothes her hair back and lifts her chin, then gives her shoulders a light shake. He takes both her hands and brings them to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. Her skin is warm, her breathing smooth and even. Perfectly healthy. But she doesn't wake up.

 

"Try kissing her," Deacon says.

 

MacCready gives him a sharp look. "What?"

 

Deacon shrugs. "I read it in a book once. Couldn't hurt."

 

He hesitates, then leans in, cupping her face in one hand. He glances over at Deacon. "You planning to stand there and watch?"

 

Deacon raises his eyebrow. "Seems like you two enjoy having an audience."

 

"Yeah, fair enough," he mutters, then kisses her. At first, there's no response, her mouth familiar and soft but unmoving. He strokes her cheek with the ball of his thumb and kisses her again, darting his tongue over the curve of her bottom lip. He can feel her breathing catch a little and he keeps going, licking into her mouth, nipping a little. She makes a soft sound and suddenly she's there, gasping in a sudden, startled breath.

 

He pulls back and she stares up at him, then glances over at Deacon, who is still crouched right beside them. "What... Bobby? What happened?"

 

He grabs her into a quick hug, squeezing her hard. "You okay?" he asks. "Back with us?" 

 

"I'm fine," she says. "Why are you... wait." She looks around, then stares down at her hands, turning them back and forth. "Okay, that's weird."

 

"What is it?" MacCready asks.

 

"I've got a little of his glow on me," she says. "It's fading, but it was there. Like an echo."

 

Deacon opens his mouth, then shuts it again, apparently letting that one go by. MacCready is sure he's storing the information away, though.

 

"Is that bad?" MacCready asks. "I mean... is that a thing that happens sometimes?"

 

"It's never happened before," she says. "But I don't think it's bad. Maybe just a side effect." She grins at them. "You guys, it worked. I got a lot. But we need to hurry; the recovery team is coming for us in the morning."

 

"So you actually read his mind?" Deacon asks. 

 

"Parts of it," She says. "A lot of useless crap, like his favorite food and what he'd like to do to that pretty trader who came through a month ago. But also some actual information. We're looking for a place called the Compound. It's underground, and it's not far from here. I got an image of a lake, and drainage pipes; I think that's where we can get in. He was thinking about a fisherman who has been hanging around there, interrupting their operations. And he was..." She trails off, frowning.

 

MacCready touches her shoulder. "What?"

 

"He was looking forward to the recovery team taking us all. He doesn't like us. Me especially, because I failed that test, but all of us bother him. Wandering around, asking questions, making people nervous with all our weapons, huddling behind the house and having private conversations. We're disrupting his peaceful town and he doesn't like it. The thing at the top of his mind was how much he was going to enjoy the... 'testing' that the Compound would perform on us."

 

"Ah," Deacon says. "That's probably even less fun than it sounds."

 

She nods. "I didn't get all the details, but yeah. Not looking good. We need to get those survivors out of there fast."

 

"Are you sure you're okay?" MacCready asks. "You had us worried for a minute."

 

"I'm good," she says. "It was... strange. And I think it's something we should only use sparingly." She looks at MacCready and touches his hand, stroking her fingertips over his palm. "I told you when we first started working together that you were different. That if we stayed together, I didn't know what I'd be able to do. This might not even be the limit."

 

"It's plenty," MacCready says. "Don't push so hard that you get hurt. I didn't like those side effects."

 

"I'm with him on this one," Deacon agrees. "You weren't looking so good."

 

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Don't worry. And come on - time's wasting."

 

~~~


	30. The Compound

Emma didn't get exact coordinates, only the image of a lake, but it's not hard to figure out that probably means the one just west of town. They circle around the coastline, shooting mirelurks, until they find the drainage pipes. There's a worn path in the mud leading down to the water. 

 

MacCready steps in first; it comes up to his waist, and it's bitterly cold. He hisses an indrawn breath through his teeth. The water has a flat, fishy stink that he associates with swamps, and it leaves slime on his skin. Behind him, Emma's geiger chatters irritably.

 

"Oh good," Deacon mutters. "Radiation  _ and  _ pond scum. My lucky day."

 

Emma says nothing. She's tense, one hand clutching the back of MacCready's shirt, and he remembers she can't swim. Fortunately she doesn't have to; the water remains shallow enough to walk through as they enter the central pipe. A grate on the inside swings open and the floor slants up beneath them. They walk until the water is swirling around their ankles.

 

Emma stops them just before a bend in the pipe. They're hunched over in the small space, all of them wet and shivering. "People up ahead," she murmurs. 

 

"We could try talking our way in," Deacon says. "I always enjoy not being shot at, if that's an option."

 

"I don't think it is," Emma replies. "Not from what I saw. We might be able to convince them to let us in, but we won't be getting out again without a fight. Remember, these are the guys who were going to capture us when we left town."

 

"If there's going to be fighting anyway, let's shoot first," MacCready says. "I'd rather take them by surprise."

 

Emma nods, then looks at Deacon, raising her eyebrows. He shrugs. "Works for me. Just remember that I'm the soft squishy one without any armor, okay?"

 

"Good point," Emma says. She digs in her pack, then hands Deacon a bunch of stimpaks. "Stay behind us. Are you good on ammo?"

 

"I'm good." Deacon pockets the stims and then drops into a crouch, holding his weapon ready. Emma looks at MacCready and touches his hand, lacing their fingers together for a moment. He nods, giving her a little smile. They go around the corner together.

 

There's an open space, all dirt floors and exposed pipes, and an elevated level across the room with three guards and a turret. The pipe provides enough shadow for them to shoot from relative concealment. MacCready hits the turret first; the explosion staggers the guards. Emma picks them off with rapid shots from her pistol. It's the one Deacon gave her at the Switchboard and it's already hew new favorite. 

 

They pause, waiting for more targets, but it's quiet. Emma nods to him, and they move up. MacCready examines the armor that the guards are wearing while Emma goes through their pockets. It's mostly leather, and not all that thick. He tugs at it, finding the weak points and making a mental note to shoot for the legs, where the armor offers no protection. 

 

Emma comes up with a key, and uses it on the door to their left. The hallway is narrow, with rough rock walls and a low ceiling. They can only move single file. Emma takes point. She's stone-faced and tense, as usual in underground spaces, but her hands are steady and she's moving well. 

 

They move slow and quiet. MacCready is using his rifle with the suppressor, and Emma's pistol is even softer. They're careful to sweep rooms, taking down targets in clusters and leaving no one alive to raise the alarm. So far nobody's even managed to return fire.

 

A door comes up on the right and Emma tries it; he can hear the rattle of chains on the other side. "We might come out that way later," Emma says. There's another door a few steps down the hall and this one opens with the key she took off the guard. A battered metal table sits in the middle of the room, with rusty patio chairs on either side of it. There are a few clipboards on the table and what is clearly a holding cell, complete with bloodstained mattress, off to one side of the room. A holotape sits on the corner of the table.

 

Emma picks it up, eying it thoughtfully. Deacon prowls around the room, looking at the posters tacked to vertical steel girders. "These are the same questions from the test," he says. "Check out the pictures; this is Vault-Tec stuff."

 

MacCready looks at one and nods. "Why would Vault-Tec design a test to detect synths?"

 

"They wouldn't," Deacon replies. "Synths weren't even invented yet when Vault-Tec was still around. I'm betting the people here found some old Vault-Tec screening test and decided to adapt it. Explains why the test questions didn't make much sense."

 

"Doesn't matter," Emma says, her voice flat and cold. "Vault-Tec, this Compound, the Institute... all of them. Locking people up underground and experimenting on them. They're all the same. Fucking monsters."

 

Deacon and MacCready exchange a glance and come to the mutual unspoken agreement to keep their mouths shut.

 

Emma pops the holotape into her Pip-Boy and starts it. They stand in silence, listening to an interrogation that swiftly deteriorates into a torture session. MacCready winces when he hears the voice of the doctor on the tape - it's that woman from Emma's lab all over again. Not the same person, of course, but close enough to make his skin crawl. Emma's hands slowly clench into fists.

 

When the tape finishes, she turns on her heel and heads silently for the door, reloading her weapon. Deacon gives MacCready a sidelong look. "Does that mean something?"

 

MacCready nods. "It means everyone here is going to die. But we knew that already."

 

He follows Emma out the door. He can hear Deacon behind them, hurrying to catch up. The next turn takes them to a large cavern, criss-crossed with steel catwalks. There are several guards in the room and Emma starts shooting the nearest ones first. Their stealthy approach evaporates as several of them shout and return fire. After that, it's familiar territory - the rattle of gunfire and the smell of blood and smoke, the cries as their shots hit home and the sharp streak of pain as a bullet glances off the combat armor on his shoulder.

 

Emma keeps low to the ground and shoots again and again, firing her clip dry and reloading just as fast. MacCready tucks himself in the doorway, leaning out to take shots and then pulling back into cover before choosing his next target. Deacon watches their back, making sure they don't have any surprises sneaking up on them. He can hear the guards calling to each other, shouting instructions to protect the doctor at all costs. 

 

More bullets whizz over his shoulder, digging chips of rock out of the wall behind him. He ducks, and Deacon pops up behind him, returning fire. The shooter is across the room on a high metal walkway and he drops onto his belly to avoid Deacon's shots. MacCready takes the opportunity to aim down his scope, and catches the man right in the throat when he starts to get back up. 

 

Deacon shouts a warning and shoots again, this time down the tunnel behind them. MacCready spins, firing at the two guards that appear at the end of the tunnel. One falls; the other ducks back around the corner. Their location isn't great; they have minimal cover in the narrow space and there are several directions that their enemies can use to get at them. But they're pinned down and MacCready is betting this place will run out of guards before the three of them run out of bullets.

 

The guy at the end of the hall pokes his gun around the corner and shoots blindly. Bullets ping and ricochet off the walls, digging up little puffs of dust. Deacon makes a sharp, bitten off sound of pain and drops to one knee, clutching his side. MacCready steps in front of him and waits, sighting down his scope. When the barrel of the gun appears again, he hits it, knocking the weapon out of the guard's hands. The man tries to scramble out and grab it, but MacCready is ready for him and hits him twice in the back. He sprawls face down in the dirt and stays there.

 

He glances over to quickly check on Emma - she's still firing, and there's a streak of blood down one sleeve but it looks like a minor wound. Then he crouches beside Deacon. "You okay?"

 

"Yeah," Deacon says. "Peachy." He's already got a stimpak out. The side of his shirt is soaked in blood and the exit wound in his back looks worse. Deacon is upright, but swaying badly and he can't get the cap off the needle. MacCready takes it from him, uncaps it, and jabs it in his side. 

 

"Give it a couple minutes and then use another one," he says. "Keep still."

 

"Thanks, doc," Deacon replies. "You know, before I met you two, I used to go whole days without massacring a bunch of stuff."

 

MacCready pats him on the shoulder and moves back to Emma. She's nearly finished clearing the room, and he picks off the last couple when they pause to reload. His ears ring with the echoes of gunshots as the dust begins to settle. There's a taut pause while they all wait for the next bout of shooting to begin. When it doesn't, MacCready takes Emma's wounded arm, peeling back the torn sleeve to check the damage. She holds still and allows him to inject part of a stimpak; he uses the rest on his shoulder.

 

Deacon is propped against the wall, one hand pressing against his side. He's got a tight, pained look on his face but he's breathing alright. A second spent stimpak is on the floor at his feet. Emma settles beside him, and tugs MacCready down with her. She slings one arm around MacCready's waist, and the other around Deacon's, pulling them a little tighter together. Then she leans back, closing her eyes for a moment.

 

"So, yeah," Deacon says after a moment. "This is happening, huh?"

 

"It's a thing we do," Emma says. "You'll get used to it."

 

MacCready smiles to himself; it reminds him of the bossy, businesslike way she'd ordered him around when they first started working together. At some point he and Emma are going to have to talk about Deacon and exactly what is happening with him, but he gets the sense that she's already made some kind of decision and is plowing right ahead. 

 

"You doing okay?" MacCready asks. "Stimpaks working?"

 

"Sure," Deacon says automatically. He casts them both an uncertain glance; his hands twitch at his sides. 

 

MacCready slings his arm around Emma's shoulders and allows his fingertips to brush Deacon's collar, just resting there. He doesn't push any further than that one slight touch; he has the feeling they are on thin ice already. With his other hand, he tilts Emma's face closer and presses a kiss to her forehead. She gives him a weary smile and rests her cheek on his shoulder. Deacon watches, but says nothing, keeping quiet and still.

 

They sit until the adrenaline of the battle fades and he feels calm and steady again. Deacon sips water and prods gingerly at his side as the wound heals. It's just like any other contact break after a fight; a strange and peaceful moment in between bouts of chaos and violence. MacCready knows they've still got work to do here, but for now he's got the warm weight of Emma along his side and the knowledge that they are, for the time being, somewhat safe.

 

Eventually Emma sighs and gets to her feet. She pulls MacCready up for a quick kiss, pats Deacon briskly on the arm, and leads them further in. The majority of the guards are dead at this point and they pick off the stragglers with no trouble as they move through the tunnels. They pause in another office; Emma picks up a holotape, but doesn't play it. MacCready is glad; he doesn't need to listen to a second torture session.

 

She pokes through a terminal, humming thoughtfully to herself. Deacon watches her, head tilted to one side. "You're really thorough, you know that?"

 

She nods absently. "These often have useful information. This one has more details about what they were doing here."

 

"Seems pretty clear what they were doing," MacCready says, nodding at a pair of bloody handcuffs sitting on a desk. "We heard the tape."

 

"I know, but I was hoping to learn something about Amelia and the other caravan survivors," Emma replies. "Or maybe some of the prior people who have disappeared around Covenant. We could've at least put a few mysteries to rest. There's no names in this, though - they're all subject numbers. Figures. Why let them have names when you're just going to kill them anyway?"

 

"You really don't like scientists, do you?" Deacon asks.

 

She gives him a quick, expressionless glance. "I haven't had reason to." Then she goes back to tapping away at the terminal. "Looks like the person in charge is Doctor Roslyn Chambers. She's probably the one the guards were telling each other to protect. My bet is Amelia is with her."

 

The path out of the office leads through a hole in a crumbling cinder block wall, and then a wide space opens in front of them. MacCready can see more cages lining the walls on the upper level, and a woman stands in the middle of the room, watching them approach. She's wearing a dirty lab coat and black goggles; her gray hair is pinned neatly back in a bun. Emma holds her pistol at her side and stops a few feet away, regarding the doctor coldly. MacCready keeps his rifle out. He's spent enough time with Emma to know this only ends one way.

 

"And here you are," Chambers says, clearly irritated. "My life's work is on the verge of ruin all because of your efforts to find Stockton's supposed daughter."

 

"Sorry, did we interrupt your experimentation and torture? That must be really inconvenient for you," Deacon says.

 

MacCready snorts. "Yeah, sorry about your guards, too. I'm afraid they didn't make it."

 

Chambers makes an exasperated noise. "You do know she's most likely a synth, yes? It's not as if I'm experimenting on humans. If you three are more than just hired guns, perhaps we can stop this before it's too late."

 

"Is this the part where you explain your reasons?" Emma asks. "By all means. Let's hear it."

 

"What would you do if your family was destroyed by a synth, right in front of you, when you were but a child?" Chambers replies. "Would you roll over and accept it? Or would you do something about it?"

 

Emma narrows her eyes. "What if it had been a human?"

 

Chambers shakes her head, confused. "What? I just told you it was a synth."

 

"But what if it wasn't? If a human had destroyed your family, would you then abduct, torture and kill other humans because of what one person did?"

 

"Don't be absurd," Chambers says. "That's not the same thing at all. Synths are dangerous, unstable things and they must be stopped."

 

"Lady, we're all human," MacCready says, "and I promise you we are the most dangerous things in your life right now."

 

"Threaten me all you want," Chambers says. "As long as the Institute walks invisibly amongst us, they strike without warning and control us from the shadows. I've dedicated my life to devising a test to detect these hidden synths. To root them out, so they can be eradicated. Isn't that a goal worth fighting for?"

 

Emma shakes her head slowly. "It doesn't matter what I say. You don't believe you've done anything wrong. You feel no guilt or remorse. You're not even afraid of us. You not going to stop doing this - and I can't allow it to continue."

 

Chambers shrugs. "Then you'll just have to kill me."

 

"I know," Emma says. "That was always the plan." 

 

The doctor pulls a 10mm pistol, but she's nowhere near fast enough. Emma is always deadly accurate at close range. She hits Chambers twice in the chest and once in the face, then stands over her body, considering it. MacCready thinks of that moment in Vault 111, when she killed the doctor from her old lab and watched her glow vanish; this feels like an echo. Satisfying, but as before, anti-climactic. Over too quickly.

 

A girl steps out from the shadows at the back of one of the cages and rattles the door. "Let me out!" she calls. "Help, please, you have to let me out!"

 

"Amelia Stockton?" Deacon asks, climbing the stairs to her cell. 

 

"Yes," she says, nodding rapidly. She's pale, with a dirty and tear-streaked face, but she looks to be in one piece.

 

"Don't worry, the cavalry has arrived," Deacon says. He tugs on the door, then glances over his shoulder. "Hey, see if there's a terminal or something that unlocks this, will you?"

 

Emma doesn't move, still staring down at the body of the doctor, so MacCready taps at the terminal keyboard. He ignores the case notes and hits the unlock command, and the cell doors slide open. 

 

"Oh, thank goodness," Amelia breathes, hurrying out of her cell. "I'm free."

 

"You okay?" Deacon asks. "Can you make it back to Bunker Hill from here? The guards are all dead so your path out should be clear."

 

"Yes," she says. "I can handle it. Who are you people?"

 

"Just friends of your father," Deacon replies. "He's worried about you and asked us to help. You better get going."

 

She nods and heads for the exit, swinging wide to avoid the doctor's body on the floor; even dead, it's clear she doesn't want to go anywhere near the woman. Emma glances up at her as she passes, but says nothing.

 

MacCready steps up beside her and touches her hand. Emma looks at him. He raises his eyebrows - a silent question. 

 

"I don't know," she says, shaking her head. "I just... don't understand people. She truly thought she was doing the right thing. No guilt at all. No regret. She felt a hundred percent certain that she was one of the good guys. How can she... how can anyone be so..." She trails off and sighs. 

 

"She was nuts," MacCready says. "Broken. Some people are. You can't let it get to you."

 

"I know," Emma replies. "I guess I just thought the place I grew up was, you know, an isolated incident. One or two truly evil people who were running the show and built something terrible. But we just keep finding more of them."

 

MacCready nods and pulls her closer. "Yeah, and then we keep killing them. There's always gonna be monsters, that's the world we live in. But we're still alive, and they're not."

 

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Well, that's true. That's something."

 

He strokes the line of her jaw with the backs of his knuckles and then tilts her chin up. The kiss is slow, sweet, and lingering; their favorite way to close out a mission. He licks into her mouth, tugging on her bottom lip, nipping gently. She makes a soft sound and presses closer, arms wrapping around his waist. 

 

At their side, Deacon clears his throat. Pointedly. "Seriously? Right here? You know there's a dead body like two feet to your left, right?"

 

"Oh, relax," Emma says. "Don't get your panties in a twist. We were only gonna kiss."

 

"Hey, can't blame a guy for assuming," Deacon says. "You two kind of have a weird habit of this stuff when I'm around. Just saying."

 

"Well, if you want us to keep going, I could probably be persuaded," Emma says. 

 

Deacon stares at her for a moment. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, shaking his head. 

 

"Quit messing with him," MacCready says. "Come on. I've had enough of this place."

 

Emma gives him a thoughtful look, then nods. "Okay," she says. "Let's go."

 

~~~


	31. Plus One

They stop at Taffington Boathouse to change clothes; theirs are still damp and slimy from the dip in the lake. Deacon disappears somewhere to leave the details of their work at Covenant in a dead drop. 

 

MacCready pulls Emma out onto the dock. They sit in patio chairs, looking out over the water. He's tired - they both are, after getting no sleep at Covenant and then fighting their way through the Compound. But they need to talk.

 

"What is it?" Emma asks, giving him a worried look. "Something's bothering you."

 

"Yeah." He sighs and glances around. They're alone - this is technically one of her settlements, but she hasn't gotten a radio beacon up here so it's just an empty house right now. "Look, this thing with Deacon - what are we doing?"

 

She blinks, shaking her head. "What?"

 

"Come on," he says. "You know what I mean. The first time I could understand; that was kind of a spur of the moment thing and it was at least partly to mess with him, to get him back for spying on us. And I won't deny that it was fun. The second time was... I don't know, I guess we got caught up in the excitement and just went with it. It's not like I objected at the time, I get that. But where is this going?"

 

Her eyes grow wide and she covers her mouth with one hand. "Ohhhhh," she says. "Well, shit. I messed this up, didn't I?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"I didn't..." She scrubs a hand through her hair, shoving it back from her face. "Wow. Okay, I'm really sorry. I had this whole thing in my head of how this was going to go and I didn't talk to you about it at all because apparently I am an idiot when it comes to having an actual healthy relationship."

 

He shakes his head. "Look, Emma, I'm not mad, I just thought we should get on the same page. I'm still not sure what you're talking about."

 

"Of course you don't, because I didn't tell you any of this." She squeezes the bridge of her nose between two fingers and lets out a long breath. "I forget sometimes that you can't see the same stuff I can. And I forget that I'm not alone anymore and I need to talk things over with you and agree before I just plunge right ahead and do what I want."

 

"And... what do you want?"

 

She gives him a long, searching look. "Okay, so first of all, you know you're the most important thing to me, right? What we have is the best thing in my life, and if it's only ever just the two of us, that would be enough for me. It would be all I need. I want to make sure you understand that."

 

He takes a careful breath. "Wow. I... am not good at these kinds of conversations. But yeah. I got it. Just so you know, that goes both ways."

 

She smiles and takes his hand, stroking her thumb over his palm. "I know, Bobby. I didn't want you to feel like you weren't enough, just because I'm thinking about adding someone else."

 

"Uh, wait," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Adding... we're talking about Deacon now, aren't we?"

 

She nods. "Like you said, the first time was just an impulsive thing. But it was good. And look, it's always good when it's just us, don't get me wrong. I think I've been very, very clear about just how much I enjoy it. Also very loud."

 

He can't help smirking a little. "Yeah, no kidding. But... you're right, too. I know what you mean. When he's there, when I know he's watching or listening, it kind of adds a certain something, doesn't it?"

 

"It does," she says. "And not only for us. I know you can't see him the way I can, but being included in this, in us, it means a lot to him. He's not sure how to respond and a lot of the time he's confused about what's going on, but he also likes it."

 

"Yeah?" MacCready asks. "You sure? Sometimes - especially that second time, when we got in bed afterward - it feels mean. Like we're just rubbing his nose in what he doesn't have."

 

She thinks about that, frowning. "You're not wrong. But we have to be careful. He doesn't have this because he won't  _ let  _ himself have it. If we go too fast he's going to run the other way. We have to keep it light and playful and let him have that space."

 

"Okay, and what about that thing in the Compound today?" MacCready asks. "When you sat with both of us."

 

"Right," she says, "that's the other part. You can't see it, but I've picked up on how he reacts to being touched. He doesn't show it on the outside, but it's loud and clear in his glow. He's like I was - starved. It's not going to make him sick, not the way it did to me, but it's definitely hurting him. I see that, and I can't help sympathizing."

 

He nods slowly. "Alright, I can understand that. Does... does it help you? The way contact with me helps you?"

 

"No, nothing like that," she replies. "Nowhere close to you. This is more about helping him." She pauses, looking up at him. "Are you okay with that? I know it's a big part of us, of what brought us together. If you'd rather I didn't touch him, I won't."

 

MacCready thinks about that, turning it over in his head. He pictures it - Emma turning to Deacon in the middle of a difficult mission, pushing him into a wall the way she does to MacCready, pressing close and leaning on him. Something thick and unpleasant coils in his chest at the thought. There's a rush of some feeling - possessiveness? Jealousy? He's not sure, but it prickles hot over his skin and he squeezes Emma's hand tight.

 

"Wow," she says, staring at him. "Well, that's a no."

 

"I... did not realize that would bother me as much as it does," he says. 

 

"I'm sorry," she says. "You didn't seem upset earlier, when we were sitting together. I would've seen. But if it makes you feel this way then I won't do it anymore."

 

"No, that's the thing," he says. "I was fine with it before. I think... because it was both of us? Not just you and him, but all three of us together. That was okay. It was... good, actually."

 

"Oh," she says. "You thought I'd leave you out or something? No, that was never going to happen. It's either you and me, or the three of us together. We're a package deal now, Bobby. I wouldn't change that."

 

Something eases in him at hearing that and he gives her a quick smile. "Alright. Then I'm in. But how does this work?"

 

"Carefully," she says, with a wry smile. "And only a little at a time. Make it a game, a running joke. That way he can always deflect and laugh it off if he needs to. I'll be able to see if we're going too fast for him."

 

"Okay," he says. "And where does it end up?"

 

She shakes her head. "End up?"

 

"Where is it going? We go slow, I get that. We keep it light. But it's pretty clear that if we keep this up, at some point the three of us are going to end up in bed together. Maybe even some point soon, if he wants us as much as you say."

 

"Oh, he does," she replies. "And yeah, I've thought about that. I mean, haven't you?"

 

He smiles, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug. "Yeah, I guess I have. I'm talking about long term, though. I don't want to... okay, don't laugh, but I don't want to hurt him, you know?"

 

"Why would I laugh at that?" she asks. "And I don't know where it goes long term. Seeing the future is not one of my special talents."

 

"Okay, fair enough," he replies. "Maybe this will just be a fun thing for all of us. We'll have a good time for a while, it'll be exciting and sexy and all that, and then he'll go his own way and we'll go ours and everyone's happy."

 

"Uh-huh," she says. "But you think there's another possibility."

 

"Well, yeah," he says. "Don't you?"

 

"Of course." She looks down at their joined hands. "Neither of us are very good at casual. And Deacon, for all his glib one-liners, is a man of deep feelings. I can see this developing into something serious if we let it, and when something is serious, it can hurt when it ends. If it ends."

 

"Yeah." He thinks for a moment, then touches her face, tucking some hair behind her ear. "I'd like to try, though. As long as we're careful. I don't want to lose what we have."

 

She smiles and turns her head, kissing the inside of his wrist. "Never."

 

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has a threesome (technically).


	32. Voyeur

There are a couple mattresses on the second floor of the Taffington house, but some of the walls and a good chunk of the roof are missing, so they drag the mattresses down the stairs. The bottom floor is in better shape. They push an old armoire over to barricade the back door but leave the front open for Deacon. 

 

They put the mattresses side by side - not touching each other, but only a few feet apart. Then they strip down to their underthings and curl up together on the mattress furthest from the door, sharing a blanket. MacCready puts the spare blanket on the other mattress.

 

Emma falls asleep quickly, limp and warm against his chest. MacCready dozes, listening for Deacon to return. They're reasonably safe here, but this place doesn't have the level of defenses that one of her built up settlements would have and he'll feel better when they can block the other door and lay out some mines.

 

He doesn't have to wait long. Deacon's stride is already familiar - the quiet and measured sound of his footsteps approaches the front door and then pauses. He's listening, MacCready realizes; probably checking what they're up to before he barges in. Given their track record, it's a reasonable precaution. 

 

The door creaks softly when it opens. MacCready closes his eyes. He hears Deacon take a few steps in, then stop. There is some rustling, and then the soft electronic whine of a frag mine priming. MacCready smiles, the movement hidden against Emma's hair. He tracks Deacon around the room by sound, soft shuffling steps and the slither of cloth over skin. Getting ready for bed. There's something cozily domestic about it, lying here comfortable with Emma in his arms and Deacon quietly moving about.

 

The floorboards squeak as Deacon stretches out on the other mattress with a low sigh. Going by how close he sounds, he hasn't moved it. MacCready's skin prickles; he can feel Deacon watching him, looking at both of them. Then there is another rustle of movement and the feeling goes away. He cracks one eye open, peeking over Emma's shoulder; Deacon is lying on his side, facing the other direction. He's not quite within touching distance, but he's close enough that MacCready can hear his steady breathing.

 

Hearing both of them, feeling Emma curled up beside him, it reminds him of nights in Little Lamplight. All the kids would crowd together, especially the younger ones. It always gave him a sense of comfort and family, and it does the same thing now. He closes his eyes and pulls Emma a little closer. Sleep comes easily.

 

~~~

 

When he wakes, Emma is facing him, arms around his waist and one leg thrown over his hips. He's not sure what's happening, still half asleep, but his body is running on auto-pilot and he arches forward when she rubs up against him. He draws in a startled breath and she kisses him, one hand carding through his hair and holding him in place.

 

"Whuh?" he mumbles. She keeps rolling her hips and she's apparently been at it a while because he's already hard, the inside of his underwear damp and sticky and dragging over his skin with delicious friction.

 

"Shhh," she whispers in his ear, and then kisses his neck. "Don't wake him."

 

That makes the sleepiness vanish quick. He lifts his head, looking over her shoulder. Deacon is still on the other mattress, sprawled out on his back, one socked foot sticking out from under the blanket. He's still wearing those dumb sunglasses, but they're askew and MacCready can see that his eyes are closed.

 

"Seriously?" MacCready whispers back. "Now?"

 

Emma gets very close, nibbling the ridge of his ear. Then she breathes low, barely audible, "He's already awake. He's pretending. And he likes it."

 

MacCready can't help a low moan at that and she smiles against his skin, then nips him. He gets one hand under her shirt and cups her breast, then rolls her nipple between his fingertips. She shudders and climbs him, squirming up the bed until he can reach her chest with his mouth. 

 

He pushes her shirt up, exposing her breasts and belly, but teases her first. He just breathes on the skin, letting her feel the heat and moisture but not touching. Her breath catches in a faint whine and she leans forward until her breasts graze his lips. He grins and helps her steer, taking a nipple in his mouth and flicking his tongue gently over the tip. She shivers and rolls her hips again but has nothing to rub against in this position. 

 

She makes a frustrated whimper and he reaches for her, sliding his hand between her legs. "Yes, like that," she murmurs - low, but not a whisper.

 

"Careful," MacCready replies. "Got to be quiet."

 

She grins, then bites her lip when strokes his thumb in tight circles over her clit. "Yeah?" she whispers. "You gonna be quiet when I'm riding you?"

 

He closes his eyes and presses one hand against his mouth. Then he stares at up at her, eyebrows lifted in a silent question. She nods. Her eyes are bright and eager, cheeks flushed; he can watch the little shivers and ripples of pleasure cross her face when he moves his fingers.

 

She's quick when she wants something - she's got his underwear down around his knees before he can argue. She wriggles out of her panties and drops them, then straddles him, the blanket bunched up around her back. It's technically still covering them but it's got to be obvious what they're doing and he glances over at Deacon. He's still stretched in exactly the same position, breathing evenly, face slack and still, but a faint pink flush colors his cheeks.

 

She looks at Deacon too, then meets MacCready's eyes. She's up on her knees, holding herself in place over him, not quite touching - waiting, he realizes, for him to agree to this. He reaches for her; she takes his hands, lacing their fingers together. He squeezes, then nods. Her smile is brilliant.

 

Then she slides down on him, eyes going hazy and half-lidded as she gets him just where she wants him. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. She's sleek and wet, hot around him, and his hips jerk up instinctively. She muffles a soft cry against her shoulder. Then she lets go of his hands and leans forward, grabbing both his shoulders and pinning him hard against the mattress. 

 

"Yeah, hold me down," he mumbles, "make me, make... oh god, Emma, like that..."

 

"Shhh," she says, then kisses him. She's rocking her hips in tight little thrusts, leaning back and forth until she finds an angle that makes her shudder and tighten around him. "Right there, that's perfect," she murmurs. "Touch me, Bobby, I want your fingers."

 

He reaches for her eagerly, one hand going between her legs to rub her clit while she rides him. He licks the fingertips of his other hand and then strokes them over her nipples. She moans and goes faster, arching her back. He can feel her getting close, growing hotter and tighter around his dick and he grits his teeth, trying to hold on.

 

MacCready can't resist a sideways glance at Deacon; he hasn't moved, but the flush on his face is bright red now and it's crept all the way to the tips of his ears. There's an obvious tent under his blanket and he's breathing faster. Emma sees him looking and she grins. "Yeah," she whispers, loud enough to be heard. "You like it, don't you? You like knowing he's right there. He could wake up and catch us any second. And what would he do, hmm? What do you  _ want  _ him to do, Bobby?"

 

He doesn't know the answer to that, but even the speculation sends a rush of heat through him, tingling over his skin. His hips jerk and he thrusts up hard and Emma gasps. She pushes back against him, taking him as deep as he can go and then she claps one hand over her mouth, muffling a long, low groan. He can feel the rhythmic flutter of muscles squeezing around him as she comes and he clenches his hands into fists, whimpering under his breath. It seems to go on forever; his balls draw up tight against his body and his toes curl and just when he thinks he can't possibly wait another second she lifts herself off him and her hand is there, stroking his dick in one long, gloriously tight slide. 

 

He completely forgets to be quiet. Emma kisses him, doing her best to muffle the noise, but he can't help it. He's lightheaded by the time it's over, his whole body quivering, the pleasure lingering in a low, sweet throb in his belly. He flops back on the bed, trying to catch his breath.  

 

Emma stretches out beside him with a long, satisfied sigh. He kicks off as much of the blanket as he can get away with and spreads his arms and legs, feeling the sweat cooling on his skin. She presses lazy kisses to his shoulder, then props herself up on one elbow and looks over at Deacon.

 

MacCready does the same - he's still right there, pink-faced and perfectly still, but at some point he has strategically moved the blanket so his reaction isn't so visible. MacCready can't help feeling a twinge of sympathy; the guy has got to be uncomfortable at this point, hard enough to ache. He's probably counting the minutes until he can reasonably "wake up" and slip outside to get some privacy.

 

He considers what would happen if they called him out. If they just scooted right over and laid down beside him, and pulled the blanket away. If they told him it was okay, he could go ahead. Maybe he'd even let them help. MacCready can picture it - Deacon would be uncertain, maybe a little thrown off balance by the weirdness of it all, but also desperate enough to be easily persuaded. It's that moment of giving in he keeps thinking about, the wavering doubt turning to relief and eagerness as soon as he's touched.

 

He doesn't realize he's reaching for Deacon until Emma catches his wrist. He looks at her; she shakes her head. "Too soon," she murmurs in his ear. "He's not ready."

 

"You just gonna leave him like that?" MacCready whispers back.

 

"No. Watch." She raises her voice. "Okay, show's over. You can quit pretending to be asleep now."

 

There’s a pause, and then Deacon huffs out an exasperated sigh, sits up (careful to keep the blanket bunched in his lap) and gives them an incredulous look. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. You knew I was awake and you went for it anyway?"

 

She grins. "You sure didn't do anything to stop us."

 

"Ah yes, so clearly this is  _ my  _ fault," Deacon replies. "I'm starting to think you two get off on this. Literally."

 

"I kinda thought that was obvious," MacCready says. 

 

"And I don't think you really mind," Emma adds. "Far as I can tell, you've enjoyed the show every time." 

 

"Look, I didn't ask to be included in your kinky sexcapades, alright?" Deacon says. 

 

Emma smiles. "It's okay to like it, Deacon. We like having you here. And if you want to go ahead and finish what you obviously need to finish, we'd like that too."

 

Deacon stares at her. "You... are not kidding."

 

"She's right," MacCready says. "Tell you what - we'll promise not to look, how's that?"

 

Before he can answer, MacCready turns, bringing Emma with him. They wind up on their sides, facing the wall, Deacon behind them. Then he just waits, breathing quietly, letting Deacon decide.

 

For a long moment, nothing happens. He doesn't have Emma's senses; he's got no idea what Deacon is thinking or feeling. But he can guess. Probably going over his options - he can go upstairs, or outside, or he can just lie still for a while until the problem goes away on its own. Or he can do what he's been so clearly invited to do.

 

There's a faint rustle of cloth behind them. MacCready holds his breath, listening hard. He half-expects to hear footsteps, Deacon leaving the room. Instead, he hears the soft whisper of skin on skin and a ragged exhale. Emma takes his hand and brings it to her lips, kissing his knuckles. He can feel her smile.

 

Deacon is better at being quiet than they are, but not perfect. MacCready can hear the breath catch in his throat, the slide of skin growing faster, the little bitten off sounds he tries to muffle. He wants to turn around and watch, to see what Deacon likes - to see his face go hazy and distracted with pleasure. But they promised not to look, so instead he just pulls Emma against his chest, closes his eyes, and pictures it.

 

Deacon's breathing is speeding up now, rougher, and he makes a soft sound low in his throat with every stroke. It's barely audible, more of a vibration than a noise, and MacCready imagines how he'd be able to feel it rumble in his chest if they were touching. Emma is shifting restlessly, thighs rubbing together as she squirms, and he kisses her neck. She shivers and presses back into him.

 

The soft sounds behind them pause briefly and there is a faint, wet noise. It takes MacCready a moment to put it together, but then he realizes that Deacon must have licked his palm because when the strokes start up again, they're smoother, slicker. Deacon likes it slippery, then - he'd probably love Emma's mouth. MacCready pictures it, her between them, sucking Deacon while he takes her from behind, and he has to bite back a moan. Emma's picking all this up, or maybe she's just getting riled up by the sounds Deacon is making, because she's got one hand between her legs and she's rocking her hips in urgent little circles.

 

They've had sex too recently for MacCready to get hard again already, but his dick twitches and a sweet shiver of arousal runs through him. Emma's breathing is as fast as Deacon's now and it's starting to catch into the little helpless whines that mean she's close. He helps her along, nibbling and kissing her neck, one hand sliding down to put two fingers in her. She's still slick and wet from last time and they slide in easily. She gasps and grinds down against him.

 

Deacon must be able to hear her, must be able to see what they're doing, even with their backs to him. He mutters something under his breath, too low for MacCready to make out the words, and then he hears a muffled whimper. He has to grit his teeth and clutch the mattress with his free hand, forcing himself not to look. Emma clenches around his fingers and shudders, then gives a familiar sharp cry.

 

That's apparently the last push Deacon needs; he muffles a series of gasps and then there's a long, relieved exhale. MacCready grins, listening to it; he can empathize. Emma sprawls in his arms, limp and sated. "Wow," she murmurs.

 

Deacon chuckles. "You know, the funny thing is I thought my life was actually pretty weird  _ before  _ I met you two."

 

MacCready laughs, nodding. "Yeah, I know the feeling. Don't worry, you get used to it."

 

~~~


	33. The Package

There's some awkwardness after that, but not as much as MacCready would have expected. Maybe it's because Emma continues to be brash, direct, and businesslike about the whole thing. Maybe it's Deacon's habit of smoothing things over and acting like everything is cool and nothing ruffles him. Maybe it's just life in the Commonwealth - they live in strange times. Adapting quickly is essential to survival. 

 

Either way, once they've all washed up and gotten dressed, any lingering tension in the air has passed. If anything, Deacon seems a little more relaxed. MacCready feels like they've crossed some important line here, something that cannot be uncrossed, and there is a new shared intimacy between the three of them. He finds that he likes it. Going by the way Emma keeps grinning at the both of them, she feels it too.

 

They share breakfast, although technically it's afternoon by this point. "So," Emma says, "what's next?"

 

"I picked up a message at the dead drop when I left our report on Covenant," Deacon replies. "We've got another mission. We need to head to Bunker Hill."

 

"Isn't that where Stockton is?" MacCready asks. "Maybe we'll catch up with Amelia on the way. I'm not sure it was a good idea to let her go off on her own anyway."

 

"She's pretty tough," Emma says. "And there were plenty of weapons and armor for her to pick up on her way out of the Compound."

 

"She made her way to Bunker Hill alone the first time," Deacon points out. "And that was fresh from the Institute. I think she'll be fine."

 

"Wait," MacCready says. "So... she  _ is  _ a synth? I thought she was Stockton's daughter."

 

"She's a synth," Emma replies. "But I guess she can be his daughter, too."

 

MacCready shakes his head. "How does that work? I didn't think synths could have kids. I mean, not like, the regular way that people do. Can they?"

 

Emma shrugs and looks at Deacon. For a moment, his expression is far away, and sad. "No, they can't," he says shortly. "Like I said, Stockton is an important contact for our organization. All the newly escaped synths go to Bunker Hill first, and he's the one who takes them in and gets them connected with us. She was one of those new escapees a while ago, and I guess they became friends. When synths first come to us, they're... I don't know. Vulnerable. And very trusting. They've been told all their lives to obey humans and that doesn't go away overnight. The wrong kind of people could take advantage of that. Fortunately for us, Stockton is the right kind. He took her in, and they tell everyone she's his daughter. I think it makes them both happy. And hey, out here, 'happy' isn't easy to come by. I figure, let them have it."

 

"Interesting," Emma says, nodding slowly. "Why do they all go to Bunker Hill? I mean, who tells them to do that?"

 

"I... can't go into that with you," Deacon says. "Sorry. Kind of a trade secret. Dez would kill me."

 

Emma and MacCready exchange a glance; he shrugs and spreads his hands. She waves it off. "Alright, fine," she says. "So why are we going to Bunker Hill?"

 

"Not sure," Deacon replies. "They never put detailed mission specs in a dead drop; too risky. The message is just to go there and meet with Stockton. He'll explain the rest."

 

"Okay, but aren't we forgetting something?" MacCready says. "What about all those people still at Covenant?"

 

"Yeah," Emma says, "good point. We killed that doctor, but Jacob and the others are still in town. They could recruit some more guards and start up their little horror show all over again. We need to take care of them."

 

"You think so?" Deacon asks. "Seemed like the doc was the main instigator there. Plus, I guarantee they're not going to be happy to see us."

 

"No, they'll attack on sight," Emma says. "No question there. All the more reason to take them out; I don't need a hostile, well-fortified settlement in the middle of the Commonwealth. There's a good chance they'll shoot at my provisioners too, and they might target Minutemen patrols. Right now, they're weak; we killed most of their fighters in the Compound. This is the time to hit them."

 

"I'm assuming once they're wiped out, you're going to use the location as one of your settlements?" MacCready asks.

 

"Of course," Emma says. "It's a great spot, in good condition and well defended."

 

"Then you should delegate this," he replies. "Get in touch with Preston, let him know to round up the troops and clear it out. This is exactly the kind of work you said the Minutemen should be handling without you."

 

Emma looks at him; a slow smile spreads across her face. "Bobby, you're a genius. That's perfect; they can take care of the town, and we can move on to this Railroad mission."

 

He can't help puffing up a little. She says things like that all the time, but until her, praise was a rare gift indeed and it still fills him with a startled pleasure to hear it. It occurs to him that she can probably see that response; it shows up in his glow. Maybe that's why she does it.

 

"Okay," she says briskly, already pulling her radio out of her pack. "We're close enough to that relay tower by County Crossing for me to get a signal through. I'm going to get this arranged, and then we'll get on the road."

 

~~~

 

Bunker Hill is half a day's walk, almost directly south. They have to use the Tucker memorial bridge to cross the river. It's wired up with frag mines, barrels of fuel, and rusted out cars. Emma lets him shoot one of the mines from a distance and it sets off a chain reaction; the whole bridge goes up in flames. It lights up the sky; he and Deacon grin at each other. Emma snickers and rolls her eyes. "So, this love of blowing stuff up, I guess that's a guy thing?"

 

"Whatever, you like it too," MacCready replies. 

 

"Hey, this is just about making sure the thing doesn't go off while we're trying to cross it," she says. 

 

"Uh-huh," Deacon says. He manages to inject an amazing amount of sarcasm into that one small sound.

 

They sit on the river bank and wait for the flames to die down. Emma leans on MacCready's shoulder, one arm slung easily around his waist. On his other side, Deacon sits close, but not quite touching them. MacCready slides his hand across the ground until the edge of his palm brushes Deacon's leg. It is a tiny amount of contact, barely enough to feel. Deacon doesn't react - but he doesn't pull away, either.

 

Once they get across the river, the buildings grow closer together and Emma is all business. They're heading toward the heart of downtown now, and enemies are everywhere. They walk single file, Emma in the lead, slinking through the lengthening shadows as the sun sets. There's a cluster of raiders skulking around the old BADTFL regional office and they engage in a brief skirmish. The raiders are caught off guard, though, and are no match for the three of them. 

 

The Bunker Hill monument appears up ahead. Emma takes them through the gate; MacCready glances up at the monument as they approach. He can't help think of the last time they were here, when he got that letter about Duncan. He wonders if the cure has made it to him by now, and if it got there in time. If it will even get there at all. There are so many things that can go wrong between here and there; it's such a long way to travel, and over dangerous territory. 

 

But his other letters made it there okay, he reminds himself. His packages of caps and drawings, they all got there. For all he knows, Duncan is already feeling better, growing stronger by the day. He can picture his son's broad, gap-toothed grin, the way his messy hair sticks up in the back and his skin becomes dusted with freckles when he plays out in the sun. 

 

Beside him, Emma glances over, then takes his hand. He tries to find a smile for her. She smiles back, and squeezes his fingers. 

 

The marketplace is starting to close down as the day ends, but Stockton is still standing behind his counter, dressed in his incongruous black suit and formal hat. His gaze slides to Deacon, but betrays no recognition. "Hi," Emma says.

 

"Welcome, my friend," Stockton says. "Might I ask, do you have a geiger counter?"

 

"Mine is in the shop," Emma replies.

 

Stockton nods. "It was you, wasn't it? Amelia told me about the three of you."

 

"She got back okay then?" MacCready asks.

 

"Yes." Stockton glances around, then lowers his voice. "She arrived a few hours ago. She's resting now, but I understand I have you to thank for getting her out of a... very unpleasant situation."

 

"We were glad to do it," Emma says. "Those people won't be bothering anyone again."

 

"I'm pleased to hear that," Stockton replies. "But I asked you here for another reason. As you may have heard, this is the first stop for all of our new... packages. So maintaining proper security here and preventing any unnecessary delays is crucial."

 

"Understood," Emma says. "What do you need?"

 

"My current package has been in my possession for far too long. I'm supposed to deliver the package to someplace nearby. But raiders have complicated matters. So if you could...?"

 

"You're in luck," MacCready says. "Shooting raiders is one of our favorite things."

 

Stockton curls his lip a little; MacCready gets the sense that he doesn't like getting his hands dirty. "It's scheduled to be a nighttime delivery. So if you can clear out the undesirables before dawn, we can do this tonight. See you soon." He slides a scrap of paper across the counter; Emma tucks it into her palm and turns away.

 

They read it over by the wall. There are only two words written on the paper: Cambridge Church. Deacon nods. "It's not far. A little to the west of here; we probably passed it on the way in."

 

Emma nods. "Let's go, then."

 

It doesn't take long. They're going back over territory they've covered recently, and most of the raiders are already dead. There are a few ferals lingering around the cemetery outside the church (MacCready is half-convinced that ferals congregate in cemeteries because they have some hazy pre-ghoul memories of too many zombie movies). Once they've cleared all the enemies from the area, they go inside the church to wait. Outside, the light fades from the sky and the first stars appear.

 

Stockton shows up soon after that, with a young man in tow. The man is scruffy, with a head of tousled brown hair and a battered jacket. He's got big, worried eyes and he moves with a slump-shouldered shuffle as if he's trying to make himself smaller. 

 

"Everything looks clear," Stockton says, peering out the window. "This is H2-22. H2, here's the people I talked to you about."

 

Emma looks at the synth for a long moment. "Hi," she says softly. "I'm Emma. Is H2 the name you want to be called?"

 

He blinks, startled. "Uh... I haven't really... nobody's ever asked me that before. I mean, H2-22 is my designation."

 

"Right," Emma says, nodding. "But you're a person. People have names, not designations. Is there a name you use?"

 

"I... yes, there was one. But I only ever thought it. I didn't say it out loud."

 

"Go ahead," Emma says. "Now's the time to start. The sooner you start thinking of yourself as a human, the sooner you can start blending in."

 

He hesitates, then takes a deep breath and nods. "It was Hugh. Is... is that okay?"

 

Emma holds out her hand. He stares at it for a moment, wide-eyed, then holds out his own. She shakes it gently. "Hi, Hugh," she says. "Good to meet you."

 

Stockton watches this thoughtfully. "I'll fire up the signal." He turns and lights a lantern sitting in the window of the church. "Time for me to go. Keep... Hugh safe. Someone will be here shortly."

 

"We've got it," Deacon says. Stockton nods to him, then slips out the door. 

 

Emma is still looking at Hugh, watching him. He's staring at the floor, hands in his pockets. "Hey," Emma says. "Come here. Sit with me."

 

She guides him over to one of the worn pews. He follows obediently and MacCready is reminded of what Deacon said; these newly escaped synths are accustomed to following orders. He thinks the man must have some degree of initiative and rebelliousness in him. After all, he managed to escape. Even so, it doesn't seem particularly apparent right now - he's meek and obviously frightened. It must show up even more clearly to Emma in his glow; maybe that's why she's handling him so gently.

 

"I'd like to ask you some questions," she says, settling beside him. "About the Institute."

 

He shrugs. "Okay, but I don't know much. I worked the maintenance tunnels. Every day for as long as I can remember." His voice is halting and low. "The only time I spoke to anyone was to acknowledge their orders, and very rarely to other synths. I've talked more in the past few days than I have my entire life."

 

"They kept you isolated," Emma says. "Probably as a way of controlling you. People like that, that's how they operate."

 

"Yeah," he says. "Synths are expected to behave... like machines. You await instructions. You execute instructions. You perform basic self-maintenance. I would acknowledge my task and occasionally ask for necessary clarification. But that's really it. Anything else is considered defective. And then the SRB comes."

 

"The SRB?" Emma asks.

 

Hugh hunches his shoulders, shivering. "They're the ones that watch us. To make sure we're not defective. To make sure we don't run. Synths that get noticed just disappear. I don't know where they go."

 

Emma puts a hand on his arm, squeezing him. His breath catches in his throat; he looks at her hand, then at her. "Is this okay?" she asks.

 

He nods. "Sorry, I... I'm just not used to it. Humans don't touch synths in the Institute. And we're not allowed to, um... we're not supposed to go near other synths unless it's specifically to complete a task."

 

"Yeah," Emma murmurs. "Look, I want you to know - that was wrong, what they did to you. What they did to all of you. It was wrong, and you didn't deserve it. Things are going to be different now. Okay?"

 

Hugh stares at her, then takes a measured breath and closes his eyes for a moment. "I, um," he says, and then stops when his voice wobbles.

 

"It's alright," Emma says. "It's been a crazy ride, hasn't it? A pretty rough few days, I bet. It's normal to feel overwhelmed. You're among friends now."

 

"Okay," he says, and gives her a wavering smile. "Thank you. You have no idea how nice it is just to talk to someone."

 

"Oh believe me, I understand," she says. "I arrived in the Commonwealth not that long ago myself. It's a hell of a wake up call, isn't it?"

 

His head comes up sharply. "You're a synth too?"

 

"No," she says, "but I'm... I've been in places like the Institute. I know what it's like to be treated that way. Like a tool to be used however they want, locked up and ordered around and punished if you don't fall perfectly in line."

 

"Oh," Hugh says. "I didn't know there were other places like that."

 

"Not as many of them these days," she says. "And eventually, if I get my way, they'll all be gone."

 

This is apparently too big of a concept for him to really get a hold of at the moment; he just nods and goes quiet. 

 

MacCready watches all this from a few feet away, standing behind their pew and keeping an eye on the door. Deacon gives him a sidelong glance. "She's full of surprises, isn't she?" he murmurs.

 

MacCready snorts. "Man, you have no idea."

 

He hears footsteps outside and turns, raising his rifle. The man who appears in the doorway is young, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, and he holds his hands up at MacCready, giving him a placating smile. "Easy now," he says. "I'm friendly." He turns to Deacon and grins. "And my man Deacon. Still with the same old face? Come on, it's been three whole months. You're getting slow."

 

"I keep meaning to go to the face doctor but who has the time, right?" Deacon replies.

 

"Wait," MacCready says. "You mean you  _ chose  _ that face?"

 

"Yeah, you're hilarious," Deacon replies, but he's smiling. "You two seem to like it well enough."

 

"Well that's true," Emma says, coming up behind them. She looks at the newcomer. "Hi there."

 

"I heard about you," he says. "Walked the Freedom Trail, cleared out Switchboard. Glad you joined the team."

 

"I see," Emma replies. "Do you have a geiger counter?"

 

"Right you are," he says. "Mine is in the shop. We good?"

 

"Can't be too careful," she says. "What's your name?"

 

"I go by High Rise. But let's check out our friend here." He turns to Hugh. "Hey you - you okay?" His voice is softer; MacCready gets the sense that he's accustomed to handling frightened synths.

 

Hugh smiles. "A little rattled. But I've never been better. You've all been so kind to me." He looks at Emma. "I've never met so many people who cared about synths before."

 

"We're gonna take good care of you," High Rise says. "For now, just stick with us." He turns to Emma. "There's more of them raiders behind me. Afraid we need a little more help."

 

"You got it. Where are we going?"

 

"We need to get to Ticonderoga Safehouse. My home. A lot of synths fresh off the boat crash there until we smuggle them out of the Commonwealth."

 

"A safehouse," Emma says thoughtfully. "Interesting. Do you do anything else there?"

 

High Rise shrugs, spreading his hands. "Most of what we do is look after the new guys. They usually got a million questions, so I try and answer as best I can. We got some of our own questions, too, about the Institute and what not. Agents sometimes drop by to lay low if the bad guys are on their tail. Never a dull moment."

 

She considers this, then glances at Deacon. "I like it," she says. "You're a kind person. I can tell. Just what they need."

 

"Yeah," High Rise says, a little uncertainly. "Well, we better get going. I'll lead the way."

 

They spill out onto the street in a tight group, Hugh tucked in the middle. The shooting starts almost immediately. The raiders are vicious at first, but they start losing people fast; Emma is still scarily efficient with that pistol, plus Deacon and MacCready are backing her up and High Rise is handy with a laser rifle. 

 

MacCready can hear them calling to each other and it sounds like recognition, then alarm. As their group advances up the street, the raiders fall back. He sees several of them turn tail and run, which is a new one for him - raiders are none too bright and are also usually hopped up on chems. They rarely see the sense in a strategic retreat.

 

"I think you're getting a bit of a reputation," Deacon says when the gunfire dies down. 

 

"Yeah?" MacCready asks, and grins at Emma. "Look at that, apparently we've killed enough of them that they're starting to learn the lesson."

 

"Took long enough," she mutters. "But hey, I'll take it."

 

They encounter only scattered resistance and soon arrive at the base of a tall apartment building. High Rise turns, grinning at them. "And we're here. All in a night's work for you agent types, huh?"

 

"Is this usually how it goes?" Emma asks.

 

"More than I'd like," he says. "Sometimes I can sneak our friends through all by my lonesome. But other times it's like the damned raiders are holding a convention. Working with you made it a whole lot easier. If you ever need grub, bullets, or just a power-nap, take the elevator up to Ticon. My house is yours."

 

"Thanks," MacCready says. "We can always use another safe place in the city."

 

High Rise nods. "And Deacon," he adds, "try not to give the rookie too much shit." He turns to Emma. "Deacon may be a terrible liar, but it always pays to have him on your side."

 

"You know, I think you're right," she says.

 

High Rise turns and heads into the building, gesturing at Hugh to follow him. Hugh hesitates. "I guess this is it," he says. "I just want to thank you. All of you."

 

Emma squeezes his shoulder, looking at him for a long moment. "It gets better. I can promise you that."

 

"Yeah," he says softly. "Maybe it does." Then he hurries into the elevator, giving them a little wave as the doors close.

 

Emma is quiet, looking up at the building. MacCready leans in until their shoulders bump together. She looks at him; he raises his eyebrows in a silent question. She nods, one corner of her mouth tugging into a half smile.

 

"So," Deacon says. "What did you think?"

 

"I've met a lot of synths," she says. "But Hugh was the first one who still remembered the Institute. I think helping him gave me a much clearer idea of what it's like there - and what your organization is all about."

 

"Yeah?" Deacon says. "You seemed to like him."

 

"I understand him," she replies. "And the more I learn about the Institute, the more I want to take them down."

 

"Sounds good to me. Let's go back to HQ and give Carrington the good news; he'll be glad to hear we did the job. Then we can fill Dez in about your side project."

 

"You think she'll be alright with it?" MacCready asks.

 

Deacon grins. "By the time I finish telling it, she'll think the whole thing was her idea to start with."

 

"You know, telling the truth works better," Emma points out mildly. "You might try it sometime."

 

"Nah, I'm good," Deacon says. "Don't worry, it's gonna be great. Epic. You'll love it."

 

MacCready chuckles to himself as they head east, toward the back entrance tunnel into Railroad HQ. Deacon is, improbably, actually quite charming. The lies are almost endearing at this point. He doesn't think he'd change it even if he could.

 

~~~


	34. HQ

Ticonderoga safehouse is actually quite close to Railroad HQ, but they don't go right away. Deacon says they should wait; let tales of their work grow and multiply a little before making an appearance. He expects that Stockton and High Rise will both have things to say about them and he wants to allow the rumors time to circulate. Emma doesn't seem to be thrilled with this approach - she prefers to be direct and is not exactly known for her patience - but she defers to Deacon's greater experience and expertise when it comes to the Railroad.

 

They go north-east, over to Country Crossing. Emma has a small settlement there and it makes a good place to stay for a few days. The settlement has a swampy area at one corner with a big industrial water purifier built over it; the pipes sink into the ground and reach the aquifer, and the location is actually a major supplier of clean water to her settlement network, despite its small size. The upshot of this is they have plenty of water to wash with, and to clean their gear. 

 

Emma and MacCready sleep in a tiny cabin. There's barely room for one bed; two would be out of the question, so Deacon stays in the main bunk house. The first night, they make enthusiastic and liberal use of the (relative) privacy. Afterward, sprawled on the mattress and catching their breath, Emma laughs softly. "It was almost weird to do that without Deacon listening in."

 

"I'm pretty sure they could hear us over in the bunk house," MacCready replies. "You're not quiet, you know."

 

"Me? You should hear the stuff you say," she replies. "Although I must admit, I love the way you get a dirty mouth when you're really into it."

 

"You've corrupted me terribly. I used to be so good."

 

Emma's skeptical raised eyebrow speaks volumes. "Why are you so careful about that, anyway?"

 

He shrugs. "I promised Duncan. Told him I'd clean up my act, be a better person. You should've heard me as a kid - I probably swore more than any mungo I met."

 

"Wait," she says. "Mungo?"

 

"Oh, uh," he says, ducking his head. "Yeah, that's kind of silly. It's what we called adults, in Little Lamplight. It meant grown-up, but it also meant, you know, stupid."

 

"I'm still amazed that you all survived like that," she says. "We had kind of opposite childhoods, didn't we? You had lots of kids, no adults, and total freedom - but also nobody to help or take care of you. I was the only kid and had zero freedom, but everything I needed was provided for me. More or less."

 

"Yeah, I don't think I'd trade yours for mine." He shudders and pulls her closer, trailing his fingertips down her bare back. 

 

She nods, curling against him. "We made it out okay, though. And hey, you did clean up your act. You are a better person."

 

"You think so?" he asks. "I'm still cruising around shooting people, after all."

 

"Only the ones who deserve it," she replies. "And really, Bobby, you were never that bad to begin with. You may have made some hard choices to get by, to survive, but I can see you. Even when we first met, you had so much light."

 

He smiles and drops a kiss on her shoulder. "Yeah, maybe. I just used to be better at hiding it."

 

Emma makes a thoughtful hum. "Sometimes that's necessary."

 

"Maybe that's why Deacon lies all the time," MacCready says. "His way of hiding."

 

"Something like that," she agrees. 

 

"How's he doing? I mean, after the whole thing at Taffington. Did we take that too far?"

 

She considers this for a long moment. "No; I think he's glad it happened. We could all feel the direction that was headed, he just needed a little nudge to get there."

 

"He seemed pretty cool about it, after, but it's hard to tell with him. He seems pretty cool with everything, even if he isn't."

 

"Yeah, that's true," she says. "But I'm getting a better handle on reading him. He likes what's happening here, but he's afraid at the same time."

 

"Afraid of what?" MacCready asks.

 

She tilts her head to one side, thinking it over. "Of messing it up, I think. Of letting us down, not being good enough. Despite all his big talk, Deacon doesn't actually think much of himself. There's a serious level of shame in his core make-up. He's done things he feels really bad about."

 

"Haven't we all," he murmurs.

 

She nods and trails a hand through his hair, stroking it back from his forehead. "Yeah. But whatever this is, it haunts him. It eats at him. He might tell us someday, or he might not, but I doubt he'll ever really get past it. Some things are too big."

 

"And what we're doing, including him, does that help?"

 

"It does," she says. "In a way, the best part of it is his role in this - he's the third wheel, the observer. We have each other and even if he totally messes up, you and I will still be together. He can't hurt us as much, so there's less risk to him, less pressure. It's safer and he likes that. He gets the companionship, the closeness, but still enough space to feel like he can run if he needs to."

 

"Wow," MacCready says. "I guess you really are getting better at reading him."

 

She smiles. "People let their guard down a lot during sex, it turns out. His glow came through loud and clear."

 

"What does it look like?" he asks. "Does he have a default color?"

 

"Oh, yeah," she says, grinning. "Pink. Deacon is pale, candy pink. When he's next to you, with your orange-gold, you two look like a sunrise."

 

"That's... actually kind of hilarious," MacCready says. "I sort of wish we could tell him about the glow just so he knows how pretty his is."

 

She snorts and shakes her head. "Yeah, maybe."

 

He thinks about that. "Do you think we will tell him about that someday?"

 

"I don't know," she says. "I've never told anyone but you. And I wouldn't want to show him my memories of the lab. That's only ever going to be for you."

 

He can't help smiling a little; he presses a kiss to her temple, nuzzling the skin there and inhaling the smell of her newly washed hair. "Good. I like having that just between us. But, generally speaking, he's already picking up a lot of what you can do. Deacon is sharp and absorbing information is kind of his thing."

 

"I know. And I'm not being all that careful about hiding it, either. I'm letting him see, to a certain extent. He truly believes we're on the same side and from what I've learned, I think he's right. Maybe, it time, I'll explain more about the glow. Or maybe he'll just have to live with knowing I can do stuff, but not knowing how I do it. We'll see."

 

~~~

 

They head back to Railroad HQ after three days at County Crossing. Deacon ranges ahead of them, asking for a couple hours lead time to, as he puts it, set the stage. MacCready isn't sure what tale he spins, but it apparently does the trick - they receive a warm welcome at HQ. Even Carrington thaws enough to smile briefly at them and nod. 

 

Desdemona waves them over; Deacon is nowhere to be seen. "So," Desdemona says, "you've certainly made an impression in your short time here."

 

"Is that good?" Emma asks.

 

Desdemona gives her a wry smile. "More or less. I will admit I wasn't sure about you at first. I get the feeling you have a problem following orders."

 

MacCready bites his tongue. Emma doesn't bother; she just laughs. "Yeah, fair point."

 

"We have rules for a reason," Desdemona continues. "A very good reason. It's kept us alive this far and we are in no position to take risks. I'm going to be frank - you were on very thin ice. Running your own serious op and using Railroad resources to do so without so much as telling me about it first is a major breach of protocol. Then you made it worse by bringing in an outside element, this robotics expert of yours. Who, for all we know, could be an Institute plant. You could have put our whole operation at risk."

 

"He isn't, though," Emma replies. Her voice is even, but MacCready can see the tense line of her shoulders, the way she holds herself perfectly upright. 

 

"Fortunately, both Tom and Deacon have backed you up on that one," Desdemona says. "And, more importantly, you've done some vital work for us. Stockton is a key part of our whole network, and not only did you save his daughter, you took down a dangerous anti-synth group in the process. Still, I had my doubts."

 

Emma nods. "But something changed your mind."

 

"Yes. It was actually the synth you helped reach Ticonderoga safehouse."

 

MacCready blinks, startled. "Hugh? What about him?"

 

"I heard from both Stockton and High Rise about how you treated him," Desdemona says. "Apparently you impressed both of them quite a bit. Genuine kindness and compassion for synths is a rarity - sometimes even within the Railroad. That, more than anything else, tells me you belong here."

 

"Oh," Emma says. "I... that didn't even occur to me as something that would be unusual, I guess. Is he doing alright?"

 

"He's fine. He'll stay at the safehouse for a little while, and then move on to our next stop." Desdemona takes a deep breath and clasps her hands together. "But, we have some other things to discuss. First, I need you to understand that I am in charge here. I will listen to you, and I will give you as much latitude as possible to run missions as you think is best, but ultimately, I call the shots. You run things past me first. Clear?"

 

Emma narrows her eyes, but she nods. "Yes," she says. "Clear."

 

"Good." Desdemona softens a little, offering a smile. "Now that's out of the way, let's talk about this ex-Institute scientist. How sure are you about this intel? We've never even heard of any human voluntarily leaving the Institute."

 

"Very sure," Emma replies. "He's out there, assuming he's survived this long. And he may be the only person who can tell us where the Institute is, and how to get in."

 

"Then I agree finding him is a priority," Desdemona says. "The Glowing Sea is a big, dangerous place. He's chosen his hiding spot well. Your plan using Tom's sensors mounted on flying robots sounds like our best shot, and I'm going to give Tom the green light to move ahead with it. Your robotics expert stays at arm's length; we'll handle communication with him. You handle the business end of the arrangement."

 

"What does that mean?" Emma asks.

 

MacCready sighs. "It means we have to come up with the caps."

 

Desdemona nods. "Specialized robots aren't cheap, and we're going to need a bunch of them. And in case you haven't noticed, we're not exactly living in the lap of luxury down here," she adds, gesturing at the cramped and dusty confines of their HQ. "You signed this guy up - you pay him."

 

"Ah," Emma says. "Well, I've got some resources. We'll work on it."

 

"Good," Desdemona says. "Deacon will stick with you for a while and help."

 

"And keep an eye on us, I suppose," MacCready says.

 

Desdemona snorts. "That goes without saying. But based on the glowing report he gave me, you've already won him over. I don't think I've ever heard him lie with that much enthusiasm."

 

"Well," Emma says. "That's something."

 

~~~

 

Deacon catches up with them just outside of HQ, strolling up casually, hands in his pockets like they're not in one of the most dangerous parts of downtown Boston. "Hey guys," he says. "Everything go alright?"

 

"We're good," Emma says. She sighs, then gives them both a serious look. "I don't think I realized how close I was to messing things up for us," she says. "Desdemona was serious in there; we came within a hair of getting kicked out. That would've been bad for us, and for you too," she adds, nodding to Deacon. "Since you were the one who vouched for us in the first place. I shouldn't have plowed ahead like that. Thanks for your help."

 

Deacon gives them an easy grin and shrugs. "Eh, no big deal. I've been sweet talking Dez for years. I figured she'd come around."

 

"I mean it though," she says. "I'm not always great at, you know, the whole people skills thing."

 

"Hey, diplomacy can be learned," Deacon says. "It just takes time and practice."

 

"Diplomacy," MacCready echoes, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling it?"

 

"Of course," Deacon replies. "But anyway, what fun and exciting new dangerous mess will we be stumbling into next?"

 

"Whatever pays the most," Emma says. "We need to come up with some caps. I've got some saved up, but not as much as we'll need."

 

"What about the income from your settlement shops?" MacCready asks.

 

She spreads her hands. "There's not a ton of it. It comes in, yeah, but these robots are going to go for close to a hundred caps each and we'll need at least ten of them, maybe more. I need to take some paying work quick."

 

Deacon gives a low whistle. "Afraid we can't count on the Railroad for that one. Not a lot of money in being a synth freedom fighter."

 

"Yeah, Desdemona was pretty clear about that," she replies. "I have some notes about possible jobs... let's see." She trails off, poking at her Pip-Boy. "Hmm, maybe this one; the first time I hit Diamond City a guy approached me about a job. Edward Deegan. Said it would be dangerous, but would also be well paid."

 

"Sounds right up our alley," MacCready says. "But that was a while ago - you think the job's still available?"

 

"One way to find out," she says. "We're supposed to meet him at Cabot House; I have it on my map and it's actually really close by."

 

"Cabot House," Deacon says musingly. "Yeah, I've been by there. Heavily guarded; there's at least one sentry bot, maybe a couple protectrons. Never been inside, the place is always locked up tight."

 

"Well, sounds like now's your chance to see what's inside," MacCready says. 

 

"Yeah, let's check it out," Emma says. "Hopefully it'll be something simple."

 

~~~


	35. Cabot House

The house stands out; it's strangely pristine on the outside, weathered but intact. It even has unbroken glass windows. The sentry bot rumbles nearby, as expected, but doesn't seem hostile. Emma stands in front of the house and stares at it for a long moment. 

 

MacCready steps up beside her and offers his hand; she takes it, then closes her eyes and focuses. "Interesting," she says. 

 

"What are you getting?" MacCready asks.

 

“Edward is inside; he's a ghoul and he's got a distinctive signature. I'm picking up two others with him, but they're... strange."

 

Deacon stands to one side, watching this. "Neat trick," he says.

 

Emma gives him a quick grin, but doesn't answer. Instead, she pushes the button on the intercom beside a door. There's a pause, then the low, scratchy voice of a ghoul comes from the speaker: "Go away."

 

"I'm expected," Emma says. "You hired me in the Dugout Inn, Edward. Let me in."

 

"Oh, it's you," the speaker replies. "Took you long enough. I thought you might have changed your mind."

 

"I'm here if the job's available," Emma replies.

 

"Yeah. Let me get the door."

 

There's a click, and the door opens. They step through and stop just on the inside, looking around. The place is spotless. The thick rug on the floor seems startlingly red to MacCready; he's accustomed to the dusty, dingy tint that coats everything in the wasteland. The stairs leading up to the next floor are smooth polished wood; they gleam faintly in the warm glow of the working electric lights. Even the walls look perfect, if weirdly old-fashioned. 

 

Edward turns out to be a tall, well-built ghoul wearing combat armor and a military beret. He nods at Emma and glances at MacCready and Deacon. “Payment is by the job, not by the person. You want to bring your own crew on board, fine, but that means sharing the caps.”

 

“That’s fine,” Emma says. “We’re together.”

 

Edward nods, unruffled. "Okay," he says. "Let's go meet the boss."

 

"What is this place?" Emma asks.

 

"Better to let Jack answer that," Edward replies. "Come on."

 

The next room is even brighter, with a huge painting on one wall of an old couple, staring out of the picture with stern, somehow disapproving faces. There's even a chandelier dangling from the ceiling; it sparkles with cut crystal glass. MacCready gapes a little, staring around at all the clean, intact furniture. Emma doesn't seem to notice; her gaze is fixed on the open door at the top of the stairs.

 

"Jack!" Edward calls up the stairs. "The new girl I told you about finally showed up."

 

"One moment," a voice replies. "I just have to..." Then there's a brief flash of light and a sizzle of electricity. 

 

Edward seems untroubled by this. "He'll be right with us," he says over his shoulder.

 

"Damn," the voice mutters from upstairs. "Clearly I'll need to adjust the mixture..." Then he steps through the doors, appearing on the second floor balcony. He immediately looks soft to MacCready; middle aged, a little thick around the middle, wearing glasses and a lab coat over a clean, pressed suit, complete with a tie and buttoned collar. "Hello, hello," he says. "Welcome to Cabot House. I'm Jack Cabot."

 

Emma gives him a long, assessing look. "Hello, Jack," she says evenly.

 

"Pleased to meet you," Jack says. "Edward finds it tiresome, but I always like to know personally everyone who works for me. Please, have a seat. How about a drink?"

 

"I think we'll pass on the drink," Emma says. "Let's talk business." Her manner is closed off and wary; MacCready wonders if it's because this guy looks like a scientist, or if she's picking something else up that's making her nervous.

 

"Of course," Jack says, settling onto a couch. Emma sits on the other one, and Deacon and MacCready sit to either side of her. MacCready scoots close, letting their hips and shoulders brush together, and she flicks him a grateful glance. "Now, before we get down to business," Jack says, "I have a question I like to ask all my new employees."

 

Edward gives an impatient little sigh. "Is this really the time for..."

 

"Don't interrupt, Edward," Jack says sharply. "The question is this: do you believe there is other intelligent life in the universe?"

 

Emma stares at him. "What?"

 

"I'm talking about the hidden history of our planet. The very origins of human civilization," Jack elaborates. "Ancient powers that modern science, even at its pinnacle, could barely begin to comprehend."

 

She narrows her eyes; MacCready can feel her tense up beside him. "Why are you asking me this?"

 

"I told you, I like to ask this of all my new employees," he replies. 

 

"What kind of 'ancient powers' are you talking about?" she asks. 

 

"I'm thinking of a non-human precursor to the commonly understood founding cultures - Sumer, Egypt, Assyria," Jack says. 

 

"Right," she says slowly, drawing the word out. "That's... interesting."

 

"Yeah, just to let you know, if he invites us to join his super-fun cult, I'm out," Deacon mutters.

 

"Hey, we've seen stranger things," MacCready points out. 

 

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Jack says. "It's become my life's work. My approach is to combine a rigorous scientific method while keeping an absolutely open mind. So much has been closed off to us simply because people assumed they already knew the answers. My father excavated a city in the Rub'al Khali in Arabia which he dated to more than four thousand years before the rise of any known human civilization."

 

"A city," Emma echoes. Her face is blank, her voice carefully even. "Really."

 

Jack nods, warming to his subject. "The structures and artifacts were... strange. Disturbing, even. Clearly not constructed for or by humans. I've spent my life trying to decipher what he uncovered."

 

"Arabia is on the other side of the world," Emma says. "Must've been difficult, traveling that far."

 

Jack hesitates. "Yes, well... I'm sorry if I'm rattling on. I sometimes forget not everyone finds these things as compelling as I do."

 

"Jack," Edward cuts in. "Can I tell her what I need her to do?"

 

"I'm sorry, Edward," Jack replies. "I get carried away sometimes. You're sending her to look for the missing shipment?"

 

"Yeah," Edward says.

 

"Well then, I'd better leave you to it." He stands and heads back toward the stairs, returning to whatever experiment they'd interrupted.

 

Emma watches him go, then turns to Edward. "What was all that about?"

 

"Don't worry about it for now," Edward says. "That's part of the job, by the way. It's best to keep an open mind. Jack may be eccentric, but he's definitely not crazy."

 

"Yeah," Emma says thoughtfully. "That's true."

 

Edward nods. "The job I got for you is simple. Jack owns a... facility... north of the city. There's an important package that went missing between there and here. I need you to track it down and bring it back to me."

 

"Uh-huh," she says. "What's in the package?"

 

"You don't need to worry about what it is," Edward replies. "Jack needs it for his research. That's all you need to know."

 

MacCready puts a warning hand on her leg; she scowls but keeps her mouth shut.

 

"You should start at Parsons State Insane Asylum. Don't let the name spook you - it's just a secure building that we're using," Edward continues. "We think the courier got ambushed as he was leaving the place. The guards heard gunfire in the distance but don't know exactly what happened."

 

"Alright," Emma says. "I'll take care of it."

 

~~~

 

They're out the door, across the river, and halfway to Bunker Hill before she slows down enough to talk. MacCready catches her by the wrist and tugs her to a stop, then gives her a questioning look. She sighs, shaking her head. 

 

"I don't like it," she says. "There is some seriously weird shit going on in that house. Jack is  _ old _ . Older than Edward. Older than  _ me _ . And there was another person there, one we didn't meet, who's even older than he is. Plus, although he genuinely believes everything he told us, there was a whole bunch of stuff he left out. He's definitely hiding things."

 

"Like the fact that he's a whack-job?" Deacon asks. "He wasn't exactly covering that up."

 

"Hey, you don't know," MacCready replies. "All this alien stuff kinda creeps me out. Maybe he's on to something."

 

"I'll tell you what he's on to," Deacon says. "A whole bunch of chems, that's what. You gotta know that's what's in this 'mysterious package' we're recovering."

 

"Yeah, probably," Emma says. "There were a few signs of chem use that I picked up, but not the usual stuff. More subtle. If he's on something, it's something I've never seen before. Maybe it's what allowed him to live so long."

 

"Yeah, what's up with that?" MacCready asks. "If he's really older than you, that makes him pre-war. How is that possible?"

 

"I don't know," Emma says. "And did you catch that stuff about his father traveling to Arabia? No way that kind of travel happens now, after the war."

 

"Maybe he found the fountain of youth," Deacon says. 

 

"Something like that," Emma replies. She frowns, considering. "There were a lot of complicated emotions showing up when he talked about his father. Worry, guilt, fear... but still love under that. And regret."

 

"Do you want to call it off?" MacCready asks.

 

She shakes her head. "You saw that place - he's got caps to spare. We need to do this. But..."

 

"What?"

 

"Do you think he... I mean, why did he ask me about that stuff? The ancient powers, or whatever. He's got all that equipment, and he's clearly a scientist of some kind, experimenting on who knows what... do you think he knows something?"

 

MacCready squeezes her shoulder, drawing her closer. "Emma, come on, don't do that. You can't think that way, that's how people get paranoid. He told you himself he asks everyone that question. And Edward had obviously heard it before. The guy just likes to ramble on about his interests. He doesn't know anything about you."

 

"You think so?" she asks.

 

"Of course," MacCready says. "He's eccentric, but you were right next to him, you got a good look - is he dangerous?"

 

She frowns, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully, and doesn't answer.

 

"What does your gut tell you?" Deacon asks. "Instinct is a powerful tool in this business, and yours are better than most. Ignore the lab coat for now and how you feel about scientists; think of him as any other person. What was your take?"

 

She sighs, then nods slowly. "He's a good man. Not exactly warm or comforting, but still... basically good." She glances up at Deacon. "Why, what did you think?"

 

He grins. "I think he's nuts. But also rich and harmless, which is the best kind of nuts."

 

"Alright," she says. "You guys are right. I'm probably worried over nothing. Let's do the job."

 

~~~

 

Recovering the missing package isn't that difficult. MacCready is frankly surprised that the guards stationed around the old Parsons hospital couldn't do the job. It's only a few raiders, and the old dairy where they're holed up isn't even that far away. Between the three of them, they have no trouble wiping out a handful of raiders.

 

The shipment does indeed turn out to be some kind of chemical; it's a small vial of pinkish liquid, and it doesn't look like any chem MacCready has ever seen. Still, it's an easy enough bit of work, and they're soon back at Cabot House with the vial in hand.

 

Edward seems relieved to have it back, and he pays them more caps than such a simple job really warrants. Behind him, there's an argument happening in the living room. Jack is there, arguing with an elderly woman in a blue dress. The three of them hang back, not inclined to interrupt.

 

"Is that the one you picked up before?" MacCready asks quietly. "The one older than Jack?"

 

Emma nods. "His mother. Look at the painting - it's the same woman."

 

Deacon looks between the woman and the painting, and his eyebrows creep high enough to be visible behind his sunglasses. "Whoa," he mutters. "Okay, that's officially weird."

 

Jack is irritated, impatient. "Mother," he snaps, "Edward has better things to do than sending someone out to find Emogene. Again."

 

"Emogene is out there somewhere, maybe even lying dead in a ditch. And you don't even care!" his mother retorts. 

 

"Wow," Deacon says. "Dramatic exaggeration  _ and  _ a guilt trip. Yeah, she's definitely his mom. They were like that even a few hundred years ago, huh?"

 

MacCready shrugs. Emma does the same. "Wouldn't know," she says.

 

Deacon takes that in with a small nod, but doesn't reply.

 

"Jack, I'll take care of it," Edward says, stepping in with the air of someone long accustomed to this argument.

 

"Bet you that's our next job," Emma says. 

 

Sure enough, the next thing out of Edward's mouth is, "Mrs. Cabot, don't worry. I'll send someone to find Emogene."

 

"Called it," MacCready says, giving her a quick grin. 

 

They wait in a slightly awkward clump in the entryway while the little family drama wraps up. Jack stomps back to his lab in a huff. His mother watches him go, then gives Edward a small smile and leaves the room. She either doesn't notice the three of them standing there, or simply chooses to ignore them. MacCready gets the feeling that the hired help is invisible to this kind of woman.

 

Edward approaches them; he's got a small, rueful smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. It's not quite the same as rolling his eyes, but seems to convey a similar meaning. "Alright," he says. "Sorry about that."

 

"Hey, family, right?" Deacon asks, spreading his hands. "What're you gonna do?"

 

"Yeah." Edward sighs. "Emogene is Jack's sister. You probably figured that out yourself. She's ah... a little flighty. Impulsive. From time to time, she runs off, usually with a new boyfriend. Then I send somebody to bring her home."

 

"Is she not allowed to leave?" Emma asks, a slight chill to her voice. 

 

"Of course she is," Edward says. "But Mrs. Cabot worries. You saw her. Look, Emogene can take care of herself. She's most likely fine. But it'd be a lot more peaceful around here if we at least knew she was all right."

 

"Okay," Emma says. "Fair enough. Any idea where we can start looking?"

 

"She's been spending a lot of time in Goodneighbor, at the jazz club there - the Third Rail." 

 

Emma and MacCready share a disbelieving glance; he finds himself wondering if there are just no other good bars in the Commonwealth.

 

"Somebody there must know something," Edward continues. "She's not known for keeping her mouth shut."

 

"Goodneighbor, huh?" Deacon says. "Never been there. Heard it's nice, though. Don't worry buddy, we're on it."

 

~~~


	36. Duncan

It's a mercifully short walk from Cabot House back to Goodneighbor; MacCready is glad, because they've been on the road since Parsons, with only a short break at Finch Farm to grab a few hours sleep on the way. They also looted the raider camp thoroughly, picking up everything they could carry with the intention of selling it off; their packs are heavy. His feet ache in his boots and his shoulders throb dully where the straps of his pack dig in. 

 

They stop by Daisy's place to lighten their loads. She brightens when she sees MacCready. "Hey, I got news for you," she says.

 

He goes still, his stomach doing a cold, uneasy loop. But she's smiling - it can't be that bad, can it? Beside him, Emma puts a hand on the small of his back. "What is it?" he asks.

 

Daisy glances over his shoulder, at Deacon, and gives MacCready a questioning look. 

 

"It's fine," MacCready says. "He's a friend, it's okay. Is it news about Duncan? What happened?"

 

"I heard from my caravan friend; he made the delivery. And he says there was two people and a kid at the farm when he delivered it, so we know Duncan was still alive when it got there."

 

His knees wobble and he has to grab onto the counter. "Did it work, though? Did it cure him?"

 

Daisy deflates a little. "Sorry, I don't know that one. He couldn't stick around that long. But hey, this is something, right?"

 

"Yeah," MacCready says, nodding. "Thank you. Seriously, it's great news. I can't..." His voice cracks and he presses his lips together, taking a careful breath. "Thank you," he manages once more.

 

He turns, blinking down at the floor. He's very aware that this is a public place and there are drifters and guards and random people all over. He tells himself firmly to get a grip, but it's not working. Then the feels Emma's hands, taking him by the arm and steering him out the door and around a corner. They wind up tucked in a narrow alley, hidden behind an old chunk of broken fencing.

 

Emma pulls him into a hug and he goes willingly, eagerly, pressing his face into the hollow of her shoulder. She curls one hand around the nape of his neck, stroking his hair. The other slides up and down his back in long, slow movements. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "This is good, it's good news, I don't know why I'm..."

 

"It's okay," she says, then turns, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You've been so worried, I could see it. It's just relief, that's all."

 

He nods and lets out a shaky little laugh. "It got there. We got him the cure. I don't think I believed it would really get there."

 

"It did, though," she says. "And Duncan is still okay."

 

"Yeah." He pulls back long enough to kiss her, long and sweet. She smiles against his mouth and he laughs again. He feels strange - shaky and giddy and happy all at once. "I just... I didn't want to let myself believe it would work," he says. "I didn't want to get my hopes up."

 

"I know what you mean," she says. "I was steeling myself to hear bad news. I was already trying to work out in my head what we would do if it didn't get there in time. How I would help you deal with it."

 

He nods. "I've had that thought a few times myself. What I would do. It's... I don't like to think about it."

 

"Listen," she says, "I think this is going to be okay. He's already beaten the odds so many times. Like you said, he's tough. I think he's going to make it. It's okay to hope, Bobby."

 

He kisses her again - he has to, after that. He cups her face in one hand and tilts her head back, then trails a line of kisses down her throat. She makes a soft sound, then laughs, giving him a little push on one shoulder to stop him. "What?" he asks, grinning at her. "Suddenly you're not into public sex anymore?"

 

"And risk another lecture from Deacon? Not this time," she says. "Plus, it's broad daylight. I have my limits."

 

"Yeah, good point," he says. "Where is Deacon, anyway?" He glances around, but the alley is empty.

 

"Oh, not far," she says. "He didn't want to intrude. Plus, you know, big emotional moments are not really his strong suit."

 

"Yeah," MacCready says. "You think we should tell him? About Duncan, I mean. He's gonna be wondering what this was about."

 

"Up to you," Emma says. "It's your story. But you did tell Daisy he was a friend."

 

He huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, when did that happen, right? He kinda sneaks up on you, doesn't he?"

 

"I believe spies are known for that kind of thing," she replies.

 

~~~

 

Deacon is waiting for them outside the Rexford. He gives each of them a quick, measuring glance, and then a cautious smile. "Everything good?"

 

Emma grins. "Deacon, everything is awesome."

 

"Alright," he says, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the Rexford. "I already got us checked in. Figured you'd want to get some rest, and it's too early in the morning for anyone to be at the Third Rail yet."

 

"Good idea," MacCready says. "I could go for a real bed."

 

They plod up the stairs in a weary line; MacCready is reminded that they never did get around to selling their crap, and his pack seems to get a little heavier with each step.  He drops it just inside the door of their room and rolls his shoulders, stretching. Emma does the same, then twists until her back pops with a satisfying series of crackles.

 

Deacon slides past them, dragging their packs out of the way so he can close the door. Emma surveys the room and raises an eyebrow. "So," she says. "Just the one room, then?"

 

"Yeah, well," Deacon says, shrugging. "Every cap counts, right?"

 

"Fair enough," Emma replies. "First dibs on the bathroom."

 

"All yours," Deacon says, waving her on. 

 

She grabs some clean clothes and soap and disappears into the grungy little attached bathroom. Deacon and MacCready watch her go.

 

"Likes baths, doesn't she?" Deacon muses.

 

"I think it's a pre-war thing," MacCready says. "People were cleaner then."

 

"I snuck into Vault 81 once and had a hot shower," Deacon says. "I gotta admit, it was pretty amazing."

 

"Hmm." MacCready gives him a sidelong glance. "So, uh... about earlier."

 

Deacon holds up a hand. "Let me save you some trouble. I've been watching Emma for a while, and when it became obvious that you two were attached, I did my homework on you. I know about the history with the Gunners, and about your mysterious package from Med-Tek. Sick family member back home?"

 

MacCready blinks, startled; his first impulse is to bristle a bit, irritated at Deacon once again poking into his business. "Thorough, aren't you," he says flatly.

 

"Yeah. It makes me a real hit at parties, let me tell you. Everyone wants to hang out with me."

 

"I'll bet," MacCready replies. He takes a measured breath, thinking it over. "Okay... I get why you had to check me out. Not a huge fan, but I get it."

 

"It's what I do," Deacon says. "And for what it's worth, I really appreciate you two putting up with my bullshit. I know there's a lot of it."

 

"Yeah, no kidding." MacCready rubs a hand over the back of his neck and then offers a rueful smile. "To be fair, we've probably given you just as much crap as you've given us."

 

Deacon huffs out a short laugh, nodding. "You definitely keep me on my toes."

 

"Yeah." MacCready crosses the room and perches on a chair so he can take his boots off. "It's my son," he says. "The sick family member back home. Duncan. I've been here in the Commonwealth trying to find a cure, and it's only because of Emma that I managed to get it." 

 

"You have a kid?" Deacon asks. "Wow, I kind of thought you  _ were  _ a kid. Now I feel old."

 

MacCready snorts. "Yeah, thanks, I never get tired of hearing that. It's great. Funnier every time."

 

"Explains that goofy little beard of yours," Deacon says. "I bet you look about twelve without it."

 

"Emma sure doesn't seem to mind," MacCready points out.

 

"Yeah, you got me there," Deacon says. "Don't know what karma you cashed in to wind up with her."

 

"Me either," MacCready agrees. "That's what I do, though, end up with women who are too good for me."

 

Deacon settles on the bed and starts removing his own boots. "I'm guessing Duncan's mom is..."

 

"Yeah," MacCready says softly. "A few years ago now."

 

Deacon is quiet for a long moment. "It fades, after a while, but it never really goes away," he murmurs.

 

MacCready watches him; he's fiddling around with the laces of his boots, facing down, eyes hidden as always behind his sunglasses. "Emma thinks you've lost people," he says.

 

"Hey, haven't we all?" Deacon replies. He gives MacCready a quick, brittle smile. "That's life in the wasteland." 

 

"Right," MacCready says, and then lets the subject drop. Whatever moment they just had is over; he can tell that pushing further will only make the other man throw up more walls.

 

They putter around stowing their gear until Emma emerges from the bathroom, damp and shivering. She glances between the two of them, eyes narrowing, and then she seems to let it go. "Alright," she says, "let's talk logistics. I'm in the middle. Bobby, you're closest to the wall. Deacon will be on the side nearest the door."

 

Deacon sits up straight. "You know there's two mattresses on that bed frame, right? I figured I'd just pull one across the room and you guys could have the other one."

 

"Don't be ridiculous," Emma says. "You don't want to do that and neither do we. Now, both of you, get cleaned up. I want to get a good chunk of rest. We'll probably have a busy night ahead."

 

Deacon stares at her for a moment, then looks at MacCready, who just spreads his hands and shrugs. "She is so  _ bossy _ ," Deacon mutters, but he's already gathering his clean clothes and he's got a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

MacCready laughs. "Man, you have no idea."

 

~~~


	37. Pillars of the Community

By the time they're all clean, MacCready is shuffling sleepily around the room, chilly in his long john pants and tee shirt. Emma has somehow persuaded the front desk to part with yet another set of sheets (before staying here with Emma, MacCready didn't even know the Rexford  _ had  _ sheets) and the bed looks soft and inviting.

 

Deacon steps out of the bathroom fully dressed, except for his boots, and pauses for a moment when he catches sight of them in their underthings. "Aw, man," he says, "we're having a pajama party and I missed the memo?"

 

"Don't worry," Emma says. "You can join us."

 

"Thanks, but I'll pass," he says. "I don't need to make it any easier for you two to molest in my sleep."

 

"Maybe later," she replies, and punctuates the statement with a jaw-cracking yawn. "It's bedtime."

 

MacCready climbs obediently into bed, holding up the blanket for her. She wriggles into place, back to his chest, legs fitted neatly against his. Then they look expectantly up at Deacon, who is still hovering uncertainly halfway across the room.

 

"Come on," Emma says briskly. "We're all tired. Get in."

 

She's so matter of fact about it, like it's not weird or awkward at all; MacCready remembers her being that same way with him in the beginning, and it still seems to work. Deacon shrugs and climbs stiffly into the bed, lying on his back, hands folded on his chest. 

 

"Okay," Emma says. "Two things. First, are you really going to wear those sunglasses to bed?"

 

"Yep," Deacon says.

 

She sighs, but lets that one go. "Fine. Second, I'm gonna need you to move a lot closer. On your side, I'll show you." 

 

She pushes on his shoulder until he rolls onto his side, his back to them, then tugs until she can sling an arm over his chest. MacCready leans in, reaching; his arm fits snugly in beneath hers, his fingertips resting on the warm dip at Deacon's waist. It's strange and familiar all at once; this isn't the first time he's shared a bed with another man, although it's been a while. He always forgets how different they feel, all firm muscle and bony edges where Emma has softness and curves. He likes the contrast of it, and the sense of closeness that comes from all of them being curled under the same blanket.

 

Deacon is tense at first, but unwinds a little at a time, sagging until he's leaning back against them. Emma makes a pleased sound, squeezing him, then turns her head to press a kiss against MacCready's jaw. "Good," she says, yawning again. "Perfect."

 

"So glad you approve," Deacon mutters. 

 

Not for the first time, MacCready wishes he could still see the glow like he had in Emma's memories. He's curious about how the three of them look together. How Deacon responds to all this, and how they must overlap and blend at the edges, affecting each other. He'll have to ask Emma about it later.

 

For now, though, he's warm and sleepy, and full of the elated relief of knowing the cure made it to Duncan. It's all he needs to drift off still smiling.

 

~~~

 

They sleep long enough for the room to be dim with fading evening light by the time he wakes. Emma has moved at some point and is facing him now, head tucked under his chin. He can look over her shoulder to see Deacon wrapped around her from behind, mouth half open and sunglasses hanging crooked off his nose. MacCready reaches out and pushes them back up, settling them gently into place. Deacon doesn't twitch, his breathing low and steady, body limp on the bed.

 

"He's still asleep," Emma whispers, words muffled against his chest.

 

MacCready leans back far enough to meet her eyes. "Yeah? Not faking this time?"

 

She shakes her head. "He's out cold. He doesn't usually sleep this deep."

 

"I guess this was good for him, then."

 

" _ So _ good," she replies. "You should've seen the way he lit up. He might grumble and pretend not to like it but a big part of him was hoping for exactly this."

 

"Yeah, I can understand that," MacCready says. He trails his fingertips down the side of her face, tucking some hair behind her ear. She leans into the touch, giving him a slow, sleepy smile. 

 

"You liked it too," she says. "I could tell."

 

He nods thoughtfully, then gives into temptation and curls his hand around Deacon's arm where it's flung across Emma's waist. Deacon is in short sleeves and he can get at the skin there; it is warm and slightly furry. MacCready strokes idly with the ball of his thumb. He slips his other hand under the hem of Emma's tank top, feeling the softness of her belly and the curve of her waist, the contrast to Deacon's firm muscle and bone. 

 

Emma shifts, making a low noise in her throat. "Don't get started," she says. "Sleeping with us like this was a big jump for him; we need to let him get used to that before taking it further."

 

"I'm not starting anything," MacCready replies. "I'm just feeling him a little, that's all."

 

"I can see how it's affecting you," she says. "And when you get wound up and you're this close to me, I get an echo."

 

"Yeah?" He grins, thinking about all the fun things he could do with that particular concept. "So if we were meeting with some settlers or Preston or something and I started... let's say, daydreaming a little, would you get all distracted?"

 

"Yes, and it's happened before. You have a dirty mind, Bobby."

 

He chuckles at that, unrepentant. "No argument there. But, to be fair, a lot of the weirder stuff we've done was totally your idea."

 

"You must be a bad influence," she says, and pulls him into a kiss. She's eager, thrumming with energy, her mouth hot and welcoming against his own. He slides his hand up to cup her breast and she moans, her back arching. He takes the opportunity to tilt her head back and nibble at the line of her throat; he can feel the way her pulse speeds up and she shivers.

 

Behind her, Deacon stirs, then draws in a sharp breath. "Nope, nuh-uh," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. "Not this time, guys."

 

MacCready laughs and pulls back. "Ah, sorry about that," he says. "Got a little carried away. Her fault."

 

"Hey, I told you not to get started," she retorts. 

 

"You kissed me first," he replies. "I think that counts as you starting it."

 

"You provoked me." She sits up, then grins at Deacon. "Don't listen to him. He's a troublemaker."

 

"All my favorite people are troublemakers," Deacon says, then yawns, stretching out full length on the bed. "What time is it?"

 

"About seven," Emma says, looking at her Pip-Boy. "Let's hit the Third Rail, have some dinner, and see if we can pick up any leads on Emogene."

 

"We've got to sell a bunch of stuff, too," MacCready points out. "I don't want to still be carrying all that crap when we leave Goodneighbor."

 

"Right," she says. She slides off the end of the bed, leaving him lying there with Deacon, a warm, empty spot between them. For a moment, MacCready considers rolling over and filling that gap. The other man is a little taller than him, and a lot more heavily built; he can't help imagining how it would feel to be curled up beside him. If it would make him feel calm and peaceful the way it does when Emma holds him down sometimes.

 

But no - too soon for that, he thinks. Already Deacon's body language is growing more closed off as he shakes off the sleepiness. He's withdrawing again, putting his guard back up. One night of closeness is not going to be enough to bring those walls down. Instead, MacCready settles for a friendly pat on the shoulder as he climbs out of bed. He can be patient; he has a feeling it'll pay off in the end.

 

~~~

 

Goodneighbor is the kind of town that stays open late. They have no trouble selling off all their extra gear and re-stocking on ammo and supplies before the merchants close down for the night. They swing by the Third Rail for food and information, and find plenty of both. Emogene is apparently the kind of lady who leaves an impression.

 

Magnolia steers them toward a wandering preacher hanging out at the Back Bay. To MacCready, the guy sounds like a con artist, but it's a solid lead, and the amphitheater isn't far to walk.

 

It's full night when they step outside the city, and they move quietly, keeping close to the buildings. The sky is overcast and the air feels damp and chilly, but so far, it's not raining. Between the lack of moonlight and the faint mist in the air, visibility is poor. He keeps close to Emma, counting on her ability to detect trouble before it gets close enough to see them.

 

Deacon has a gift for stealth, often disappearing entirely into pockets of shadow, then emerging somewhere else. He moves with the ease of long habit. They make an odd little procession, but MacCready likes it. He likes knowing he's with people who have his back.

 

The amphitheater is brightly lit by a bonfire burning out front. They pause in the bushes outside the radius of light, surveying the scene. MacCready counts five people that he can see, hanging around by the fire, or wandering closer to the river. They look like random settlers, dressed in the familiar tattered and dirty clothes of any wasteland citizen. He glances over at Emma, waiting.

 

"Okay," she murmurs. "Brother Thomas is the one in back, in the suit and hat. He's not hostile, and neither are they, but be careful of him. He's got some kind of hold over them. I think he could order them all to attack us if we rub him the wrong way."

 

"Are we going to avoid that?" Deacon asks. "I'd rather not shoot these people if we have a choice."

 

"I'll give it my best shot," she says. "Be ready, though. I'm also picking up Emogene - at least, I assume it's her; she's inside the building somewhere. Much older than anyone else here, and not a ghoul, so that seems to fit the Cabot family profile."

 

"You think she's in trouble?" MacCready asks.

 

Emma shakes her head. "Not exactly. She's bored and frustrated, but not scared. I can't get much more detail than that at this range."

 

She holsters her weapon and walks up to the group in plain view; Deacon and MacCready follow her lead. Brother Thomas stands when they approach, and puts on a broad grin. MacCready distrusts it immediately. Nobody is that instantly friendly unless they want something.

 

"Welcome, neighbor," Thomas says. "We're always glad to see a new face around here."

 

"Hi," Emma says. "I'm here for Emogene Cabot."

 

Thomas' smile flickers a bit. "Oh, I'm sorry, but Emogene is indisposed right now. She's not seeing visitors."

 

Emma raises an eyebrow; her voice grows chilly. "Really. Is that her choice, or yours?"

 

"Look, I don't see how this is any of your business," he says. "She and I are... you know, romantically involved. This is between us. A little spat, that's all. Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Now, would you like to learn about the Pillars of the Community?"

 

"I'd like to talk to Emogene," Emma replies. 

 

Thomas sighs and lowers his voice. "She and I are just having a little... relationship trouble. You know how it is. She's not seeing anybody until she cools off."

 

"You're holding her prisoner?"

 

MacCready drops one hand to the stock of his rifle. He's heard that particular tone from Emma before, and it never bodes well. From the corner of his eye, he sees Deacon take a step back and pivot, moving to flank.

 

"No," Thomas says, "she's not a prisoner. She's just locked in her room until she calms down. She was acting crazy, threatening to run off. No offence, but you know how women can get sometimes."

 

Emma draws one hand back; MacCready can see it curling into a fist. He catches her wrist and throws Deacon a pleading look. 

 

Deacon slides up beside them, flinging a casual arm around Emma's shoulders, holding her in place. "Yeah, I hear you buddy," he says to Thomas. "Women, right? This one here is a real firebrand. I bet Emogene's the same way."

 

"She seemed so reasonable when we met," Thomas replies. "So interested in learning more about our movement. But when I asked her to join, we had a disagreement - she got kind of violent."

 

"Hey, she's emotional, right? Probably can't help it," Deacon says. "Tell you what, we're friends of the family. Maybe we can talk some sense into her."

 

MacCready can feel Emma quivering with tension and her jaw is set in a sharp, angry line, but she keeps quiet. Thomas gives her a nervous glance. "I don't know what to do with her at this point. I can't have her threatening my people. If you're willing to take her off my hands... let me unlock the door for you."

 

He leads them around the side of the building, then unlocks a solid-looking blue metal door. "She's all yours, neighbor," he says, then scoots away, casting a worried little look over his shoulder as he goes.

 

Emma glares at Deacon. He lifts his hands, offering his easy smile. "Remember the part about us not shooting everyone? I know that guy totally deserved a punch in the mouth, but I kind of wanted to keep my body count low today, you know?"

 

She scowls, then sighs and nods. "I don't like that guy. He's taking advantage of people, and when Emogene was too smart to fall for his crap, he locked her away instead."

 

"So he's a liar and a coward," MacCready says. "World's full of them. Let's just get Emogene and get out of here."

 

Deacon chuckles. "You do have a way of getting straight to the point, MacCready."

 

Emma opens the door and they peer in. It's a small room, with a battered bed frame holding two mattresses and some crates stacked in a corner beside a dirty brown sofa. The woman sitting on the sofa looks up at them. MacCready eyes her carefully; her hair is gray and her skin is lined with age. She looks closer to the age of Jack's mother than of Jack himself. But then, if Emma is right, all of them are much older than they look. Maybe Emogene is just showing it a bit more than the others.

 

She gives an impatient sigh and stands as they approach. "Don't tell me," she says. "Jack sent you."

 

Emma nods. "You look a little different than we expected, though."

 

Emogene gives an irritated huff. "How rude. I know perfectly well what you're referring to, and for your information, I'm Jack's  _ younger  _ sister. The baby of the family, in fact. Don't make assumptions about things you know nothing about."

 

"Oh, I believe you," Emma says. "But if you're counting on getting some of that mysterious serum of his to put you back to normal, you better hurry. Most of the last shipment was stolen; I was only able to recover one vial."

 

Her eyes widen slightly. "Damn. Mother will already be trying to convince him she needs it more. Jack never could stand up to her."

 

"Well, you're free to go," Deacon says. "Seeing as we just rescued you and all. You're welcome, by the way."

 

"I didn't need rescuing," Emogene replies haughtily. "And I didn't need Jack sending someone to track me down. He's always trying to control me."

 

"Then by all means, stay here," Emma says. 

 

She rolls her eyes. "I was bored with Thomas anyway. He seemed so interesting at first... but after we got here, he turned out to be just another brute. He actually thought he could force  _ me  _ to join his absurd cult."

 

"Maybe you should pick your boyfriends a little better," MacCready says.

 

"Who asked you?" Emogene snaps. "Jack and Mother don't own me. I go where I please. But I'm done with this place."

 

"Let's get out of here, then," Emma says.

 

"Oh, I'm not going with you," Emogene says. "You can tell Mother I'll be along home before too long. I just need a drink first." Then she strolls idly out the door, lifting her chin with a proud sniff as she passes Thomas and his followers. They watch her uneasily, but none of them try to stop her.

 

"What a charmer," Deacon says dryly.

 

MacCready snorts. "I'm starting to feel a little sorry for Jack. Between his mother and his sister, no wonder the guy's a bit nuts."

 

Emma makes a thoughtful hum. "She's complicated. Older people usually are; all those life experiences add layers and details to them, and she's older than most. But under all that attitude she's deeply unhappy. She feels trapped."

 

"Maybe they're hooked on that stuff," Deacon says. "The anti-aging serum, or whatever it is. Plus, living forever probably isn't all that great after a while. Especially these days."

 

"I don't know," MacCready says. "Life seems pretty good to me."

 

Emma grins at him, then slings an arm around his waist, kissing him on the cheek. She reaches her other hand toward Deacon and wraps her fingers around his wrist. "Alright," she says. "Mission accomplished, and we didn't even have to kill anyone. Thanks to you two. Let's go get paid."

 

~~~


	38. Enter the Asylum

Back at the Cabot House, they walk into the middle of yet another family conversation. Jack and his mother hover around the radio, talking to Edward. MacCready hears the gunfire and instinctively drops his hand to the stock of his rifle. He and Emma exchange a glance. "Here we go," he mutters.

 

She nods, then strides into the room as Jack loses contact with Edward on the radio. She gets right to the point. "What do you need?"

 

Jack gives her a relieved look. "Good, you're here. We need to get to Parsons. It's under attack by raiders - maybe the same raiders who killed my courier. If some of them had used the undiluted serum... it could explain their unusual success against Edward's men."

 

"Wait," Mrs. Cabot says. "What about Emogene? Did you find her?"

 

"Yes," Emma says. "She's fine. She'll be back soon."

 

"Well, at least that's one small comfort in the middle of this disaster," she says. 

 

Jack gives her a distracted look. "Mother, that's not important right now. Of course Emogene is fine. She's always fine." He sighs and turns to Emma. "You'll be wanting to be paid, of course. Edward usually handles these things. Caps is what you use for currency these days, right?" He digs through a drawer and hands over a bag full of caps; MacCready can hear the distinctive click and rattle. To his practiced eye, it looks to be at least two hundred, maybe a little more. "Here," Jack says. "I hope that's enough."

 

"It'll do," Emma says, deadpan.

 

"Right," Jack says. "Now, we really need to focus on the current emergency."

 

Mrs. Cabot draws herself up. "How can you be so callous about your sister's safety?"

 

Jack gives a frustrated groan, but otherwise ignores her. "Before we go, I need you to understand something," he says to Emma. "When we get to Parsons, you need to do exactly what I tell you. Nothing more, nothing less. Is that clear?"

 

She narrows her eyes and stiffens, jaw set in a hard line. "Got it." 

 

MacCready's heard that deceptively calm, cold tone from her before and it's never a good sign. It doesn't help, he thinks, that this guy is so clearly a scientist. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Emma has some hangups about taking orders from scientists.

 

Jack apparently doesn't pick up on her anger. "Good," he says briskly. "Make sure you have whatever you'll need for a serious fight. I'll wait for you outside."

 

Mrs. Cabot watches them all with a worried line between her brows. "Jack, be careful," she says. "And... try not to hurt him."

 

"I love Father at least as much as you do," Jack replies. "But you know as well as I do that if he gets free, there will only be one option."

 

"Don't let it come to that," Mrs. Cabot says. "Please."

 

Jack softens a little, sighing. "I'll do my best, Mother."

 

Emma exchanges glances with MacCready and Deacon as they follow Jack out of the house. He pauses just outside the door. "Let's go," he says. "And just to be clear - under no circumstances can we allow Lorenzo to be freed from Parsons."

 

"Lorenzo," Emma echoes. "Your father, you mean."

 

A troubled expression flashes across his face. "Yes. But I... it's better not to think of him like that. He's not the man I knew anymore."

 

"Why not?" she asks.

 

"It's complicated," Jack says. "We don't have time. Just know that if he escapes, I will have lost my father forever. I refuse to let that happen after spending so long trying to cure him."

 

"So you're keeping him prisoner," she says.

 

"Only for his safety," Jack says. "And for the safety of everyone else. He's a dangerous man."

 

She nods. "People who are kept locked up against their will often become dangerous."

 

Jack turns, heading north at a fast pace, nearly running. The three of them follow. MacCready has the uneasy feeling all of this is hitting a little too close to home for Emma, and hopes that doesn't come back to bite them later.

 

~~~

 

For a pudgy middle-aged scientist, Jack has some serious stamina. He keeps them moving at a fast clip all the way back to the asylum. They come across a deathclaw on the north end of the bridge near the Slog, and Jack joins into the fight without hesitation. He even seems to be a good shot. MacCready doesn't exactly like the guy, but he feels a certain grudging respect.

 

It's a long walk and MacCready is grateful that they took the time to get plenty of rest in Goodneighbor before tracking down Emogene. Even with that, they're all tired by the time they arrive. 

 

The freshly killed bodies of the asylum guards and a few raiders are strewn about near the entrance. Although the guards are Jack's employees, he doesn't seem inclined to feel sad about their deaths. "Edward's men seem to have given a good account of themselves," he says. "But not good enough." Then he makes for the front door. "Okay, stick close, follow my orders, and I'm sure everything will be fine."

 

Emma gives MacCready a sidelong glance and a slight shake of her head. He nods and shares a look with Deacon, who just shrugs and reloads his weapon. They move through the door in a tight, wary group.

 

There are more bodies inside, but MacCready is relieved to see the place doesn't look at all like a hospital. Emma doesn't always do great in medical-looking places. This seems more like an office, with desks and filing cabinets scattered around. Jack tries a door to the right and finds it chained, then leads them to the other side of the room. He pauses when the sound of a conversation drifts down the hall. They flatten themselves against the wall and keep quiet, listening.

 

"Oh, it's going to be worth it," a voice says from deeper in the asylum. "If Lefty's right about this being where that new juice is coming from... hell yeah, it's going to be worth it."

 

"How'd you get any of it anyway?" a second voice asks. "Lefty doesn't even like you."

 

"I cashed in some favors with people who Lefty  _ does  _ like," the first guy replies. "You're just sore cause you never got a taste."

 

The second guy makes an irritated snort. "You better be right. And Lefty better share it out fair or it's not just me that's gonna be sore."

 

Jack sighs, frowning. "They're definitely using the serum," he murmurs, then looks up at the three of them. "Be prepared. I'm certain they haven't been diluting it properly. They're likely to be unusually strong."

 

Then he slides around the corner before they have a chance to ask questions. He opens fire, shooting down the hallway. Shouts of alarm rise up and are swiftly followed by a hail of bullets. "So much for the stealthy approach," Deacon mutters. 

 

They wait for a break in the fire, then press forward. After that, it's like any raider fight; MacCready has cleared raiders from buildings with Emma plenty of times. He follows her lead and watches her for signs of where the next targets will pop up. Deacon falls into position behind them, watching their backs and mopping up anyone they leave wounded but still alive. 

 

Jack doesn't fit well into their methodical pattern. He's brave, but clearly has limited combat experience. He rushes in and doesn't use cover effectively. Despite that, he's strangely resilient and seems to shrug off multiple wounds before bothering to use a stimpak. He also continues to be pretty handy with his laser pistol, and at least is useful for drawing fire away from the three of them.

 

They fight through several raiders, and at least two of them are noticeably harder to kill than usual. MacCready has to switch over to the shotgun and even then, there's one that takes three point blank hits to the chest before he even slows down. Emma manages to finish him off with two well-aimed headshots from her .44 pistol. She pauses once he goes down and touches MacCready's arm, where he's bleeding from a light graze.

 

"It's fine," he says. "Barely touched me."

 

She nods, a troubled line between her eyebrows. "Careful. Both of you," she adds, looking at Deacon. "At least some of them really are on something very strong. More powerful than typical raider chems. Try to keep them at a distance. If they get close enough to touch you, it could be over fast."

 

Ahead of them, Jack gets a door open, and they hear him call out. "Edward! How badly are you hurt?"

 

They enter the room to see Edward slumped on the floor, one arm curled protectively over his belly. "I'm not dead yet," he says dryly. "But I don't think I can get up."

 

"You kept them from using the elevator?" Jack asks.

 

"Yeah," Edward says. "I sent the elevator down to the basement like you wanted and shut it down."

 

Jack nods. "Good."

 

"Shot quite a few of them before they decided to leave me alone in here," Edward continues, one corner of his mouth tugging into a faint grin. "Haven't seen anybody for quite a while. I think. It's hard to keep track of time."

 

"Are you sure you can't get up?" Jack asks. "I could really use your help."

 

"Yeah, Jack. I'm pretty damn sure."

 

"This guy's all heart," Deacon mutters. 

 

Emma nods, then crouches beside Edward. "You okay?" she asks. "I have a stimpak if you need it."

 

"I'll be fine," Edward says. "Just kill the rest of these assholes and I can make it out on my own."

 

"You're in luck," Deacon says. "Killing assholes is our specialty."

 

Jack ignores all this, tapping away at a terminal on the desk and muttering to himself. "They've definitely reached the basement, although I don't understand how they knew how to get past... it doesn't matter now. We'll have to go through the abandoned part of the building."

 

"Oh good," MacCready murmurs. "The  _ abandoned  _ part of the huge old insane asylum. I'm sure that will be way less creepy than the rest of it."

 

"It looks like the Abremalin field is still functioning," Jack says. "Although several of the security doors in the basement have already been breached. We'd better hurry if we want to stop them. They seem determined to reach Lorenzo for some reason."

 

Emma slides a step to the left, standing between Jack and the door. "You need to level with me before we go any further. What's really going on here?"

 

Jack sighs. "I suppose it's time you knew. It's hard to overstate exactly how dangerous the artifact has made Lorenzo. In addition to being homicidally psychotic, he has also gained enhanced strength and unusual resistance to most kinds of physical damage. He also commands a kind of local telekinesis, which appears to be projected by the artifact itself."

 

"I see," Emma says evenly. "And why is he here?"

 

"This was a safe place to keep him while I worked on removing the artifact."

 

"Sorry, nope," she says. "That was a lie. Try again."

 

Jack opens his mouth, then closes it again, blinking in surprise. "That's... not a lie. I really am working to remove the artifact."

 

"Agreed, that part is true," she says. "But the rest of it wasn't. This isn't about keeping him safe, is it?"

 

"Well..." Jack frowns, glancing at the rest of them, but finds no help. "As I said, he's very dangerous. And if he were ever released while the artifact is still exerting its influence over him, his very first targets would be me and my family."

 

"Because you locked him up," Emma says.

 

"No," Jack says sharply. "Not... well, partly because of that, but you must understand that his crimes before he was placed here were... horrific. It was only because of my family's influence that he didn't wind up on death row. Before the war, this was a functioning asylum, and he was brought here as a patient. I've literally spent centuries trying to save him."

 

Emma narrows her eyes, then nods slowly. "Truth. But there's more you haven't told me."

 

Jack shifts impatiently, fiddling with the handgrip of his laser pistol. "We don't have time for this. Those raiders are trying to break him out even now, and I'm afraid they're getting close to succeeding. If we don't get there in time to stop them, then all is lost."

 

"Alright," Emma says. "I'll help you. For now."

 

Jack nods and hurries them out the door. They face another tough fight in some kind of internal courtyard, the wide open space dominated by a dry, crumbling fountain in the center, overgrown with vines. Raiders shoot at them from a scaffolding on the other side of the room, and the floor is strewn with frag mines.

 

MacCready and Emma take spots behind cover and pick off the raiders with their rifles while Jack charges in, making himself an obvious target. He at least has the sense to avoid the mines, but he does manage to get shot a couple more times. He continues to bounce back remarkably quickly from all kinds of damage.

 

Once they clear the room, they climb the scaffolding and enter a series offices. "We never used this wing," Jack says. "Nobody's been in here for decades. No telling what we'll run into."

 

"Is this place bigger on the inside?" Deacon asks, trailing along behind them. "Seriously, how many more rooms can it have?"

 

"Hang in there, old man," MacCready says, and pats his shoulder. "You can take a nap when we're done."

 

"Hilarious," Deacon mutters, but he smiles. 

 

More gunfire rattles in the distance, echoing flatly against the crumbling plaster walls. They move on, falling into the familiar pattern of shooting, taking cover, reloading, and treating injuries. This section of the building is in worse shape than the rest of it, with several sections of the floor collapsed and gaping holes in the walls. Piles of rubble block many of the doorways. 

 

They slip through one of the holes to find a dark, narrow concrete stairway leading further down. Emma glances at the walls, pressing close on either side, and scowls. MacCready feels the cool, still air and recognizes that they're going underground. When they reach the dim hallway at the bottom, a curl of unease sinks into his belly. 

 

The rooms branching off to either side of the hall are tiny, and are clearly cells. Each one contains a bed, toilet, and small dresser. It's all gray concrete instead of blank white paint, but other than that, it feels like the lab all over again. Some of the cells even have old skeletons in them, long ago patients who were left behind to die in their rooms.

 

Beside him, Emma goes completely blank-faced and quiet. He glances ahead to make sure there are no enemies in sight, and then he pulls her to the side. He lifts her chin until she meets his eyes. "Hey," he says. "Stay with me. You okay?"

 

She takes a long, careful breath, then nods. "Yeah. Just, real quick..." She leans in, slipping her arms around his waist and tucking her face into the hollow of his neck. He puts one hand on her back, the other holding his weapon ready. He watches over her shoulder for trouble.

 

Deacon watches all this, then takes an uncertain step closer. He gives MacCready a questioning glance. MacCready turns them and holds his arm out in mute invitation. Deacon only hesitates a little before accepting it. When he steps into place, pressed against Emma's back, arms around both of them, it feels like completing a circuit. MacCready grins and leans in, letting his chin rest against Deacon's shoulder. 

 

"What are you doing?" Jack calls from further down the hall, irritated. "Come on!"

 

They linger for a moment longer, then pull back. "I'm not going in any of those cells," Emma whispers. "Don't ask me to do that."

 

"Don't worry," MacCready says. "You good?"

 

"I'm good," she says. "Let's finish it."

 

They move quickly down the hall; the next section is mercifully just more offices. There are a few more raiders but between the four of them, they're more than capable of wiping them out, even the ones who are clearly hopped up on something serious. An empty elevator stands waiting for them and Jack leads them into it.

 

"Kill everyone you see," Jack says when they arrive at the lower level. "Don't hesitate. We can't let them release Lorenzo."

 

Emma looks at him, but doesn't reply. Jack takes them through a dusty space with crumbling brick walls and a dirt floor, but the next room is markedly different. This one is cleaner and well lit, with papers, microscopes, and chemistry equipment littering the tables. A bank of windows along one wall looks into another big room, and in the center of it, there's an obvious holding cell. The man inside is dressed in an old-fashioned black suit and has a strange device perched on his head.

 

Emma stares at the holding cell, then at all the equipment around them. Slowly, her gaze turns back to Jack. MacCready and Deacon exchange an uneasy glance.

 

Jack doesn't notice any of this. He's frantically tapping at a terminal near the observation windows. "Those idiots are trying to shut down the Abremalin field! That's the only thing keeping Lorenzo from breaking out of there. We need to get in there and stop them."

 

"Hello, Jack."

 

MacCready feels a shiver run down his back; Lorenzo's voice is cold and smooth, laced with malice. 

 

"It's been a long time since I've had the pleasure of a personal visit," Lorenzo continues. 

 

"Father," Jack says. "I will stop this."

 

"My powers have grown, Jack. The artifact still has  _ so much _ to teach me. Once I am free, I will be happy to teach you, too."

 

"You know I can't let you out until I can remove the artifact," Jack says. "Let me see... they've locked down all the security doors! I'll have to open them one by one from here while you work your way down the hallway. Quickly now!"

 

The door to their left opens, and they hurry through it. They move in a tight group, careful to avoid getting separated as the doors open and close in succession. MacCready can hear Lorenzo purring instructions to the raiders, telling them to shut down the containment field and open the door.

 

At the end of the hallway they come out shooting. The last couple raiders in the room are heavily armed and are clearly using whatever is in that serum Jack keeps talking about. Fortunately the cell in the middle of the room makes good cover, and Emma is especially dangerous in close quarters. Lorenzo watches the fight with avid interest, pressed close against the window of his cell.

 

When the raider boss goes down, Jack calls to them from the observation room. "There's still one chance... I just need a moment to enter the failsafe codes. It's not too late. It will take some time for him to regain his powers. We still have a chance to stop him."

 

"Don't listen to my son," Lorenzo croons softly to them. "He's the crazy one. You know this. Look at what he's done to me."

 

Emma drifts toward the cell window, meeting Lorenzo's eyes through the glass. MacCready steps up beside her, not liking the distant, lost look on her face. "He locked you up," she murmurs.

 

"Yes," Lorenzo says. "Kept me captive. His own family. And do you know why?"

 

"Why?" she asks.

 

"So he could use me," Lorenzo says. "Where do you think he gets that serum that's kept him and the others young all these years? He's not trying to save me. Don't let him fool you."

 

She nods slowly. "He's a scientist. That's what they do."

 

"Exactly," Lorenzo says. "Do you really think he would ever let me out? And lose his source of eternal youth?"

 

Behind them, Jack is shouting about a failsafe in the containment grid and something about generators. Emma isn't listening. She lifts one hand, pressing her palm against the glass. Lorenzo does the same, fitting his hand to hers. 

 

"You know," he says. "You  _ understand _ . I'm his project, his experiment. He doesn't even see me as human anymore."

 

"Right," Emma says dreamily. "They don't care about you. They just take what they want."

 

"Don't let him kill me," Lorenzo says. "You can let me out. You can end this. If you do, I promise to help you. I just want to get out, that's all. I know you'd feel the same way if it was you in this cage."

 

"I would," she agrees. "I hated them. I understand."

 

MacCready's had enough. He grabs Emma's hand, pulling it away from the window and tugging her back. She resists, but only in a loose, distracted way. She's still looking at Lorenzo. He steers her until they're around the corner and she can't see him anymore. "Emma, look at me," he says, putting his face close to hers. "At me, come on, right here."

 

She frowns, squirming, trying to get away. Deacon steps up on her other side and puts a firm hand around her upper arm. "Come on," he says, "MacCready is right. That guy is messing with your head. Snap out of it."

 

"He's a prisoner," she says. "Jack is using him to make that serum."

 

"So he says," MacCready replies. "Was it true?"

 

She frowns, looking away. "I can't see him. There's some kind of heavy shielding built into the cell - I can't get through it. But just look at him! Look at him and look at Jack. For all the pretty furniture, that's still a prison cell and Jack is still just another scientist doing his experiments, not caring who is hurt in the process."

 

MacCready shakes his head. "Lorenzo is dangerous. We shouldn't let him out."

 

Behind them, Jack is still shouting instructions, begging them to override the generators so he can flood the cell with radiation. Emma jerks her thumb over her shoulder toward Jack. "You hear that? He wants us to kill his own father. How can you be siding with him?"

 

"Listen," Deacon says. "If you can't get a read on Lorenzo, you can still get one on Jack, right?"

 

Emma scowls and tries to tug away again, pulling toward the cell. MacCready and Deacon hold her in place, but MacCready knows she won't put up with that for long. "I can read him, sure," she says. "He's cold. Methodical. And right now, he's scared, why wouldn't he be? He knows Lorenzo will kill him. If you were locked up and experimented on, wouldn't you want revenge?"

 

"You said he was telling the truth about trying to remove the artifact," Deacon says. "Right?"

 

She hesitates, the nods reluctantly.

 

"And when he said Lorenzo committed terrible crimes before being locked up, was that true?" MacCready asks.

 

She sighs. "Yes, but does that mean he deserves to be imprisoned forever? Used as fodder for Jack's serum?"

 

"You said he loved his father," Deacon says quietly. "Look at him. Is that still true? Even after all this, is it still true?"

 

Emma turns, staring at Jack for a long moment. He meets her eyes through the glass. "Yes," she says. "It's still true."

 

"Lorenzo is not you," MacCready says. "This is different. And he's using whatever mojo he has to try and manipulate you. Don't let him get inside your head."

 

She looks at him, then down at her hands. MacCready isn't sure what she sees, but her eyes widen and she takes three rapid steps back, distancing herself from the cell. When she looks up again, her face is set and determined. "Okay," she says. "Hit the generators, and hurry. We don't have much time."

 

They spread out, hitting the override switches on the generators at each corner of the room. Fortunately they're large and obvious; MacCready doesn't have to fumble with a ton of dials and buttons to find the right one. Emma hits the last one and a buzzing alarm goes off.

 

"That's it!" Jack shouts. "Don't worry, the zeta radiation won't harm you." He taps a few keys on the terminal, then looks up, staring at Lorenzo. "I'm sorry, Father," he says, his voice wavering a little. "I did everything I could to avoid this. I believe I was close to finding a way to remove the artifact."

 

In the cell, Lorenzo crumples to the floor. "Liar!" he yells. "You would have fed upon me here forever if you had your way!"

 

Emma shakes her head. "No," she murmurs. "Not lying." But her face is pale, and she looks away as Lorenzo begins to convulse. MacCready moves to her and slings an arm around her waist; Deacon does the same from the other side.

 

Lorenzo drops all attempt at pretense as the radiation washes over him. "Puny worm!" he spits. "Do you truly think you have the power to destroy me?" Then he shudders, chokes out a breath, and goes still.

 

"Goodbye, Father," Jack mutters, barely audible through the glass.

 

After that, it's quiet. MacCready isn't sure how to feel; he's killed plenty of times, but always with a weapon or his hands, never at a cold and deliberate distance like this. There's something eerie about just standing there and watching the man die, locked in his cell, helpless. Beside him, Emma is staring at the ground, shaking her head slowly.

 

"You okay?" he asks both of them.

 

Deacon shrugs and tries to put on his easy grin. It's almost believable. Emma gives Lorenzo's cell a long, unreadable look. "Which side am I on?" 

 

"You're on our side, which is clearly the most awesome one," Deacon says. "Come on. I'm ready to get out of here."

 

"Yeah," MacCready agrees. "I'm with you there. Some fresh air, some sleep, we'll all feel better."

 

Emma doesn't answer, but she walks with them back out to Jack's observation post.

 

Jack is still there, sitting on the edge of a table with his head in his hands. He straightens when they approach. Some of his cold, logical exterior has been stripped away; his hands tremble and he’s pale, shaken. "We didn't have any other choice, did we?"

 

Something about the obvious grief on Jack's face is weirdly reassuring - the man genuinely did care about his father. Maybe he wasn't exactly a perfectly ethical scientist, but MacCready thinks they may have chosen the lesser of two evils here.

 

"What would he have done if he'd gotten free?" Deacon asks.

 

"Oh, he would have killed all of us," Jack says immediately. "And then the rest of my family. And that would only have been the beginning. The world now... it's a world made for monsters. No system of justice, no one to protect the people - nothing to stop him." He sighs, then nods to himself. "No, I've answered my own question. We truly had no choice."

 

Emma is still silent, and seems unwilling to look at Jack, so MacCready pipes up. "What now?"

 

"I need to bury my father," Jack says. "And then shut this place down. I won't be back here again. Before you go... I couldn't have done this without your help. Here, I think this is fair compensation. I won't be needing your services after this." He rummages in a file cabinet and pulls out a large sack of caps; it feels heavy in MacCready's hands and he schools his expression. This alone is enough to pay for at least five of those little robots they need.

 

"Thanks," Deacon says. "And you're sure you don't need any other jobs done?"

 

"No," Jack replies. "Without Parsons to run, I don't think I'll need such an... extensive staff. But come back and see me at Cabot house in a week or so. I may be able to do something useful with the artifact, now that I'm able to study it directly. All my research may not have been completely in vain."

 

"Be careful with it," Emma says suddenly, looking up at him. "Don't let this cycle repeat again."

 

Jack blinks a little, startled, but gives a somber nod. "Believe me, I know that danger all too well."

 

She stares at him for a long moment. "Yes," she says. "I believe you do."

 

That appears to be all she's going to say on the matter; she turns and sweeps past him, headed for the elevator. Deacon and MacCready hurry to keep up. They crowd in, jostling together in the small space, and wait as the motor chugs to life and hoists them slowly and laboriously toward the surface.

 

MacCready reaches out, taking Emma's hand. She looks down at their intertwined fingers, then gives him a small smile. Then she holds her other hand out to Deacon. He hesitates, then shrugs and takes it. He seems to think about it for a long moment, and then he slowly reaches for MacCready, completing the circle. It is a small motion, but it feels important, and it occurs to MacCready that it's the first time Deacon has actually taken the initiative to touch one of them first.

 

Emma wisely doesn't make a big deal of it, but when they finally step out of the asylum and back into the open air, she's smiling again, somehow lighter.

 

~~~


	39. Hope

The Parsons Asylum is far north of the city, in the middle of nowhere, but Emma mentions a cabin about an hour to the east where they can rest up before making the trip back into Boston. They’re all tired; it’s been a long day of fighting raiders, and a long walk out to the asylum before that. Deacon especially seems to be running on fumes. He’s still completely unarmored and seems unwilling to change that, meaning he took more damage than any of them during the fighting. Stimpaks can only go so far.

 

By the time they make it to the cabin, they’re plodding along in an exhausted line, grimly putting one foot in front of the other. MacCready can smell the sea before he sees the cabin; it’s overgrown with scraggly grass and brambles, all but invisible in the fading daylight. The walls are weathered wood, nearly silver with age, patched with chunks of newer plywood and bits of fencing. A typical wasteland structure, cobbled together and leaning somewhat drunkenly to one side, but it looks weatherproof and safe.

 

“Found it a while ago,” Emma says as they approach. “The Minutemen fixed up the walls and roof but left it alone after that. Mostly it just gets used as a rest point for caravans; I have some settlers that make regular trips out to the beach for the fishing.”

 

It’s the most words she’s said in a row since leaving the asylum. MacCready takes it as a good sign that she’s climbing out of the withdrawn silence that the whole episode with the Cabots left her with. Behind them, Deacon shuffles along, yawning.

 

The door isn’t locked, but there’s nothing inside worth stealing. A few battered mattresses are strewn across the floor, and there’s a small cooking station, but otherwise it’s a bare, empty room. 

 

“Sleeping time?” Deacon asks. “Seriously, I’m all out of go-juice here.”

 

“Right there with you,” MacCready says. “It’s been a long day.”

 

Emma nods. “The door locks from the inside. We can all get some rest.”

 

“Well thank fuck for that,” Deacon mutters. He drops his things in a heap on the floor and drags a mattress over until he’s got two of them lined up side by side. Then he flops down with a long groan, arms and legs sprawled out, face planted in the mattress.

 

Emma and MacCready exchange a look. MacCready catches himself smiling a little; it’s just like Deacon to decide to embrace the whole sharing a bed thing without actually talking about it. He shucks his own gear, and Emma follows suit, dropping her armor but leaving most of her clothes. Then she tugs MacCready down onto the mattresses with her, pushing and nudging Deacon’s arms and legs until there’s room for all of them. Deacon makes sleepy, complaining little mumbles but shifts willingly enough.

 

It’s a relief to lie down; his back aches and his feet are sore from all the walking, and he’s got half a dozen mostly-healed wounds from all the fighting. Emma feels warm and familiar tucked against his chest, and Deacon’s breathing is already lengthening into the smooth cadence of deep sleep. MacCready drops his arm over both of them, the slim curve of Emma’s waist fitting into the crook of his elbow and Deacon’s chest firm under his palm.

 

He’s tired, but not quite ready to let go of the day. “Hey,” he murmurs, pulling Emma a little closer. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” she says. “You were right. Lorenzo wasn’t me.”

 

“Right,” he says. “I mean, I get the similarities. I understand why it messed with you.”

 

She nods, then turns, settling into a more comfortable position. “He did at least some of that deliberately. I don’t know what he was capable of with that thing on his head, but when he was working on me, my glow started to change.”

 

“Yeah?” He props his head up on one hand, giving her a worried look. “Change how? Was it just temporary?”

 

“It’s fine now,” she says. “But it was kind of… dampened? Shoved down, suppressed. It’s hard to describe. But I think it’s how he managed to convince the raiders to follow his orders. He had some kind of pull.”

 

MacCready shakes his head, frowning. “Weird. For what it’s worth, I think we made the right call in there. That guy just felt wrong.”

 

“Yeah. And Jack wasn’t all that bad, for a scientist.” 

 

“What do you think will happen to them now?” MacCready asks.

 

Emma shrugs. “I guess they’ll get old. We already saw it happening to Emogene, and I gather she wasn’t away from the serum for that long. All those years are going to catch up with them.”

 

“They’ve already had way longer than most people get,” MacCready says. “Definitely had their fair share of living, and then some. Emogene seemed tired of it.”

 

“Immortality isn’t such a great thing,” Emma says. “Not when you really think about it. Knowing I won’t be around forever just makes me appreciate what I have. Makes me want to hold onto it while I still can.”

 

MacCready tilts her head back and kisses her, soft and sleepy. “Yeah,” he says, “I know what you mean.”

 

She smiles and kisses back, then closes her eyes. “We were good today. The three of us - we’re good together.”

 

He hums in agreement, already drifting off.

 

~~~

 

MacCready wakes up slowly, like rising to the surface of a deep lake. He’s drowsy and warm and there is a comfortable tangle of limbs and blankets all around him. It takes a while to remember where he is. He drifts, letting it come back to him - the trip into the asylum, and killing Lorenzo Cabot, and the remote cabin near the coast where they holed up to rest.

 

Emma is limp and heavy against his chest, hair in a mess as always, spread across her face and sticking up in odd curls. There’s a warm hand tucked under his shirt at his waist, and he can feel the slow, deliberate stroke of finger tips sliding up and down his skin, just over the edge of his hip. The hand is too broad and rough to be Emma’s. 

 

A tingle of excited curiosity zips through him and he shifts, leaning into the touch. He feels the stroking pause for a moment, then continue, deliberate. MacCready drags a hand out from under Emma’s arm and loops it around until he finds the firm shape of Deacon’s shoulder. He rests it there, squeezing a little. It feels like a careful and elaborate dance, skirting around each other in small, cautious touches, seeing what will happen. Already warm anticipation is curled in his belly, sweet and hopeful.

 

There’s a rustle as Deacon rolls closer, and his hand slips down MacCready’s side until his fingers can dip into the small gap beneath the waistband of his pants. MacCready follows suit, moving his hand up to the hollow of Deacon’s neck, and then to his jaw. He runs his thumb over the skin there, feeling the rough scrape of stubble, the hard line of bone beneath. 

 

Deacon turns his head; MacCready can feel the soft whisper of his breath against his palm. It’s not quite a kiss; his lips don’t touch, but it’s close enough to register the heat of each exhalation. Gathering his nerve, MacCready reaches a little further, until the ball of his thumb traces the thin, firm shape of Deacon’s mouth. 

 

Deacon makes a soft sound; MacCready can hear him swallow. He licks his lips, and the tip of his tongue flickers over MacCready’s thumb in the process. MacCready closes his eyes, squirming a little, trying to get closer.

 

Emma draws in a sharp breath and sits up. She’s between them, so knocks both their arms away with the motion. She looks down at them, wide-eyed. MacCready draws his hands back, feeling like he’s been caught stealing, but at the same time, full of a certain giddy glee. Something is happening here, some kind of critical point has been reached and passed already and she’s going to make it  _ keep  _ happening, he’s sure of it. She wants this just as much as he does. As they all do.

 

A slow smile spreads across Emma’s face. “Well,” she says. “What are you two up to?”

 

MacCready sprawls lazily back on the mattress, fingers laced behind his head. He gives her a cocky grin. “What do you think?”

 

They turn to look at Deacon; he stares back. He tries to smile, but it’s nervous, uncertain. His sunglasses are crooked and MacCready can catch a glimpse of his eyes. They are a worn, faded blue, like old denim, and strangely vulnerable without their usual covering. 

 

Emma gives Deacon one of her quick, searching looks, then nods. “Right,” she says. “Here’s what we’ll do. Deacon, scoot over - you’re going in the middle.”

 

“I am?” Deacon asks, but he’s already moving, switching places with Emma. He’s clearly more comfortable with her taking charge.

 

“Yep,” Emma says brightly. “Gotta put you within reach. Bobby, go ahead - I know you want to.”

 

That’s all the encouragement MacCready needs; he tugs Deacon close, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist and tangling their legs together. He can’t help rolling his hips a little, relishing how heavy and solid Deacon feels. Deacon makes another of those low, rumbling sounds, his breath catching in his throat, and wriggles closer.

 

“Good,” Emma says. She’s grinning, eyes bright, a pink flush rising on her cheeks. “Oh, that’s perfect. Bobby’s been wanting to get his hands on you for  _ ages,  _ you know.”

 

“Yeah?” Deacon asks, sounding dazed. “Well, I mean… who wouldn’t, right?”

 

MacCready laughs, then presses a kiss to Deacon’s neck. He can feel Deacon shiver at the touch; his heart is thumping in his chest, under MacCready’s hand. 

 

“That’s right,” Emma murmurs. She slides down beside them, curling up along Deacon’s other side. “We both have.”

 

“Kinda thought you two just liked an audience,” Deacon says. “Not a… you know, third wheel.”

 

“We like  _ you, _ ” Emma says. “If you just want to be an audience, that’s okay. But first, let us have a little fun, hmm?”

 

“Hey, I’m a fun guy,” Deacon says. “Ask anyone.”

 

“Good,” Emma says. She leans over him to kiss MacCready, taking her time about it. She’s already excited, turned on; he can tell by the way she kisses, hot and eager, and by the little sounds she makes. Then she pulls back enough to meet his eyes, raising her eyebrows in a silent question. He nods.

 

She turns and touches Deacon’s face, tracing the line of his cheekbone. He looks up at her, then glances at MacCready; he gets the sense they’re both waiting for his permission.

 

“Do it,” he says. “I want to see.”

 

He’s prepared for jealousy, but it doesn’t come - instead, he watches Emma kiss Deacon and feels a strange pride. It’s a chance to show off what he has, to share something amazing, and the way Deacon moans and leans into the kiss just makes it better. He knows with a rock-solid certainty that Emma loves him, that he is not going to be replaced, and with that foundation this becomes easy and exciting. 

 

She pulls back, eyes soft and dark, and licks her lips. “Now you,” she says. “Go on.”

 

He pulls Deacon over, cupping one hand at the back of his neck. He pauses when they’re close enough to feel each other’s breath, letting Deacon be the one to close that last little bit of distance. It’s rough - an edge of teeth and a scrape of stubble, very different than Emma’s soft, lush mouth, but he loves the contrast. He nibbles Deacon’s bottom lip, then nips hard enough to make him draw a startled breath. Deacon gets the idea and bites back, threading his fingers in MacCready’s hair and holding him firmly in place. Then he pulls back enough to mouth at the line of MacCready’s throat.

 

“Yeah,” Emma purrs, shifting restlessly. “Like that. Deacon, push him onto his back. Hold him down.”

 

Deacon doesn’t hesitate. He’s fast, hands gripping MacCready’s upper arms hard and flipping him onto his back, then pinning him to the mattress. He’s heavy - bigger than MacCready, and  _ much  _ bigger than Emma. MacCready squirms, testing his grip, and Deacon squeezes him harder. He’s trapped, well and truly held in place whether he likes it or not and the knowledge fills him with a strange mix of arousal and relief. He sags against the mattress, tension running out of him that he didn’t even know was there.

 

“Beautiful,” Emma says, and kisses Deacon’s cheek. “Look at that, look how happy you made him.”

 

“Yeah?” Deacon says. “You like that?”

 

MacCready nods. “More,” he mumbles, “come on, come closer. Let me feel you.”

 

Deacon lowers himself until his full weight is resting on MacCready, sprawled over his chest, holding him in place. It’s hard to draw a full breath but the lightheadedness only makes everything better. There’s something about the sense of compression, of being squeezed into this one space with Deacon on top of him and Emma at his side and warmth all around that makes his chest ache with a crazy joy. He rocks his hips helplessly, pleasure coiling into a sweet ache at the base of his spine.

 

He’s distantly aware of Emma murmuring to Deacon, encouragement and instructions, telling him how to move, how to shift so MacCready can grind up against his belly. He’s impossibly hard, the cotton of his underwear slick and damp with pre-come, sliding wetly over his dick with each tiny, trapped thrust of his hips. He hasn’t come in his pants since he was a teenager but he’s barreling that direction in a headlong rush, gasping for breath, babbling nonsense.

 

Deacon finds his rhythm and rocks with him, letting MacCready rub up against him in long, glorious slides, but never giving up control. MacCready is still pinned, still held exactly in place. Weirdly, it makes him feel free; he has zero responsibility in this situation, no obligation to maintain any kind of control. He relaxes fully and gives himself over to it, crying out loud and long when he tips over the edge, shuddering in pleasure.

 

He can barely breathe by the time the last shivery aftershocks run through him, tingling along his skin. His vision is gray and swimmy and his chest aches with the effort of getting air. Dimly, he hears Emma tell Deacon to lift up, and the weight disappears from his chest. He gulps down air greedily, his body limp and buzzing.

 

“That was amazing,” Emma says, and kisses his forehead. Then she turns and kisses Deacon, stroking her hands over his face. “Both of you, wow. Deacon, did you see the way he lit up? That was  _ so good _ .”

 

Deacon nods, but there’s a faint worried line between his eyebrows. “You alright there?” he asks MacCready.

 

“Mmmmmyeah,” MacCready mumbles. “ _ Wow.  _ We gotta do that again. Like, a lot.”

 

Deacon laughs; he’s still looking at them both as if he can’t quite believe this is happening. As if he’s half-sure this is all an elaborate joke and at any moment they will explain how he is the punchline. Even so, his face is flushed and he’s got one hand in his lap, rubbing himself through his pants.

 

MacCready sits up, catching Deacon’s wrist. “Let me,” he says, “can I?”

 

Deacon nods and MacCready reaches with curious fingers, tracing the firm outline of his dick through his pants. It’s not the first time he’s done this - there was a great deal of experimenting among the teenage boys in Little Lamplight - but it’s been quite a while. Deacon makes bitten off little sounds with each press and stroke, and his hands are clenched at his sides. Emma watches them, then catches MacCready’s arm and holds him still.

 

“Here,” she says, “like this.” She pulls Deacon down on his side, facing her, then gestures at MacCready to curl up behind him. She lets Deacon tuck his face into the hollow of her shoulder and puts one of her hands on the back of his head, stroking the nape of his neck. MacCready can feel the way Deacon immediately relaxes, some of the tension running out of him. He wraps an arm around Deacon’s waist, pressing close.

 

“Perfect,” Emma murmurs. “Just like that. Now Bobby, nice and slow.”

 

MacCready slides his hand down carefully until he can slip his finger tips beneath the hem of Deacon’s shirt. The surface of his belly is taut and warm and he lingers there, stroking in long, lazy slides, dipping a little lower with each sweep. He can feel the angle of Deacon’s hips, the little hollow inside each one where the skin is soft and sensitive. He trails his fingers along, barely grazing the skin, and Deacon shivers.

 

Emma’s other hand is in his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, and then she cups his face, rubbing her thumb over his cheek. He turns his head to kiss the inside of her palm, and she smiles at him over Deacon’s shoulder. He watches as she trails little kisses along the rim of Deacon’s ear. He can feel Deacon shifting restlessly, hips rolling in instinctive little twitches. He undoes Deacon’s fly and slides his hand in; the skin is already hot and slippery with sweat and Deacon moans, shuddering. 

 

MacCready curls his hand around Deacon’s dick and squeezes, just holding him there for a long moment. Deacon leans in, then presses back against him, wriggling in a helpless attempt to get some friction. He teases a little longer, then gives in, allowing several long, sleek strokes. Deacon makes a low, relieved groan and rocks his hips with the movement, finding MacCready’s rhythm and matching it eagerly. 

 

“Yeah,” MacCready murmurs, leaning up to kiss the side of Deacon’s neck. “Yeah, that’s good. Tell me what you like.”

 

He can feel Deacon lift one shoulder in a half shrug. “I’m easy,” Deacon says, the words muffled against Emma’s neck. “Whatever, it’s all good.”

 

MacCready exchanges a glance with Emma. She nods, then lifts Deacon’s face and straightens his sunglasses. She kisses him in gentle little touches, lingering at the corners of his mouth and the hinge of his jaw. MacCready can feel Deacon start to tremble, his breathing catching in his chest. Too much kindness, he thinks. Deacon can’t handle kindness.

 

He provides a distraction, stroking Deacon faster, adding a twist at the tip that is almost too rough. Deacon makes a lost, wanting noise, caught between the two points of sensation, Emma’s sweet, soft kisses and MacCready’s firm hand. He leans up and nips at the side of Deacon’s neck, sucking marks into the skin. 

 

“Yes, keep doing that,” Emma says, then kisses Deacon for real, licking into his mouth and swallowing his moan. “He’s close,” she says, “so bright, I can feel it.”

 

MacCready is starting to get hard again, arousal coiling low in his belly, and he rubs up against Deacon’s hip in time with his strokes. Deacon feels it and pushes back, arching. The move exposes his neck and Emma takes merciless advantage, kissing his throat and the line of his collarbone.  

 

He can feel Deacon’s breathing stutter into a series of gasps and then there is liquid warmth over his fingers, making his strokes slippery. He keeps going, drawing it out, rubbing through the last shivers as Deacon muffles whimpers of pleasure against Emma’s shoulder. He keeps his face there, hidden in the curve of her neck even after it’s over. His breathing is rough and unsteady and MacCready gets the sense that this is very nearly too much for him. He wraps both his arms around Deacon and Emma, and feels her doing the same, leaving Deacon pressed snug between them. They are quiet, waiting as the shaking passes and Deacon grows calm again.

 

“Wow,” Deacon mutters eventually, lifting his head. “You know, suddenly I’m wondering how many people have used this same mattress for this exact thing.”

 

“Best not to think about it,” Emma says breezily, matching his tone, allowing him to lighten the moment. “Especially since we aren’t done yet.”

 

“Seriously?” Deacon says. “You kids and your stamina.”

 

She grins. “Don’t worry, Bobby’s ready to go again. I’ll tell you what to do.”

 

Deacon brightens at that, clearly more comfortable giving than receiving. “Sure thing, boss.”

 

“Okay,” she says, “first thing, Bobby, get those pants off before they wind up glued to all your favorite bits.”

 

He snickers and hurries to obey, wincing a little as he peels the sticky underwear away from his skin. There’s really no dignified way to do that and he glances up to see Deacon covering his mouth with one hand, eyes crinkled at the edges. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he mutters, but he can’t help smiling back. 

 

Emma is already undressed; when Deacon looks back at her he freezes for a moment, eyebrows lifting, and licks his lips. MacCready shoots him a smug grin. “I know, right?” he says.

 

“Man, you are hitting way above your weight class,” Deacon says.

 

Emma props herself up on one elbow, giving him a confused look. “What does that mean?”

 

“He means you’re ridiculously hot and obviously too good for me,” MacCready says. “But I knew that already.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, whatever, I’ll stroke your ego later. Come here, next to me.”

 

He sprawls beside her, unable to resist rubbing up against the sleek skin of her waist, relishing the softness. She gives him a long, lazy kiss, then looks at Deacon, who is still standing uncertainly, watching them. 

 

“Deacon,” she says. “I’ve noticed you have a way with words. Always getting us out of trouble. Want to show me what else you can do with that mouth?”

 

Deacon gives her a cocky grin. “Oh, prepare to be impressed. They don’t call me the silver tongued devil for nothing.” He kneels between Emma’s legs, nudging them apart. MacCready watches as he stretches out on his belly and kisses a line up the inside of her thighs, slow and lingering, nibbling at the sensitive skin. 

 

She squirms and tries to scoot down the mattress but he refuses to be rushed. MacCready can hear the familiar sound of her breathing speeding up, the little eager whines she makes when she’s turned on and ready, and his dick twitches. She grabs for him, pulling him into a kiss, harder this time. Then she steers him toward her chest. He takes the hint, filling his palms up with her breasts and leaning over to take one nipple in his mouth. 

 

He can’t see what Deacon is doing from this angle, but he can guess by the way Emma shivers and squirms. He can hear the faint, wet sounds of Deacon working busily and he follows suit, licking across the tip of her nipple in rapid strokes, then moving to the other. Emma lets him go on until her nipples are taut little buds, dark pink and standing up sharply, and then she pulls him in for another kiss. She’s moaning into his mouth, distracted and helpless, and he leans back to watch the flickers of pleasure cross her face. He doesn’t usually get to see her face this close when she’s nearing the edge and it’s fascinating; she bites her lip, squeezing her eyes shut, then lets out a long, low groan and arches her back. 

 

MacCready curls closer to her, kissing her throat and the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. He rolls his hips, rubbing up against the swell of her thigh, the soft, sweet curve of her ass. He can feel her shaking and he can watch Deacon licking into her, fast and relentless and it’s all doing crazy things to him. He has to make himself slow down, stop grinding on her, and arousal throbs low and sullen in his dick, heavy between his legs. 

 

Deacon brings his hand up and slides two fingers into her, smooth and deliberate, and she cries out. MacCready can see him smile.  He leans back up to watch her face just in time, seeing her expression go slack with pleasure, eyes fluttering shut. She babbles something fast and slurred together as she comes, tossing her head back and forth on the mattress.  For a moment she is drawn tight like a bowstring, and then she sags back, going limp and dazed. 

 

Deacon sits up and draws his sleeve across his face, then grins at them both. “Told you,” he says.

 

Emma nods weakly. “Next time you gotta do that for Bobby. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

He’s not sure which of them she’s asking, but MacCready nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.” He glances at Deacon to find him looking back; his eyes are, as always, unreadable behind his sunglasses, but a little smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

 

Emma bounces back fast. “Okay,” she says. “Deacon, sit up. Bobby, you sit in front of him; his legs go to either side of yours.”

 

They both do as they’re told; there’s just something about the clear surety in her voice that prompts obedience. MacCready feels a little strange pressed into Deacon’s lap, especially since he’s naked and Deacon is still fully clothed. The contrast makes him feel vulnerable and there’s something he likes about it, a small shiver of nerves and eager anticipation all mixed together.

 

Emma straddles them both, kneeling over MacCready’s hips. She kisses him, then leans over his shoulder to kiss Deacon as well. “Good,” she says. “I love the way you look together. You’re like fire when you’re lit up this way.”

 

She curls closer before either of them can answer, and then she’s sliding down MacCready’s dick with no warning. He gasps and leans back against Deacon, and feels a quick kiss on the side of his neck. Deacon’s chest is solid behind him and Emma is warm and heavy in his lap and he feels surrounded, tucked between the two of them. 

 

She’s already slick and slippery from Deacon’s mouth and she stretches around him easily, hot and familiar. He can’t help an instinctive thrust, then another, but she doesn’t allow him a third. “Hold him still,” she says to Deacon. “Don’t let him move.”

 

Deacon’s arms are on him immediately, one across his chest and the other tight around his waist. His own arms are pinned to his sides beneath them and Deacon’s legs squeeze him in place. He’s perfectly trapped and Emma is rocking on his lap in tight little circles. He kisses everything he can reach, the dip in the center of her collarbone and the underside of Deacon’s jaw and every bit of skin he can get at, helpless to do anything else.

 

“Em, I can’t, I can’t hold on like this,” he says, the words tumbling out between gasps for breath. “Please, you know it’s too good, I can’t.”

 

“I’ll take care of it,” she says, “it’s okay. Relax, let go.”

 

He shakes his head, clinging to the last bits of self control.  He’s not even sure what he’s trying to tell her. It’s all a mess of want and pleasure and some kind of lingering worry, some feeling that he has to be responsible for something and he can’t just surrender completely. “You, I have to, please,” he mumbles. “Oh  _ fuckfuckyes _ there… Emma I  _ can’t _ …”

 

“Hush, Bobby,” she murmurs, and kisses him, cool and sweet. “We’ve got you, it’s all right. I promise, it’s okay.”

 

He squirms and Deacon just holds him tighter and that’s it, the last little push he needs. He sags and lets his head loll on Deacon’s shoulder. He’s aware of Emma moving, the snug slide of her body and the delicious wave of sensation every time she rolls her hips, but it feels almost secondary. Quiet wraps around him, peace like the shooter’s calm when the aim is just right. He can feel everything; the way Deacon’s chest rises and falls behind him with each steady breath, the way Emma’s hands stroke his hair and touch his face, the sweet crest of pleasure rising up to meet him. He drifts sideways into it, only distantly noticing when Emma lifts away from him at the last moment, finishing him with her hand. He’s lost in it, wrapped up in both of them, impossibly safe.

 

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s stretched out on his side. Deacon is behind him, an arm slung over his waist, pressing lazy kisses to his shoulders and the back of his neck. Emma is on the other side, watching his face. There’s a blanket thrown over all three of them, but other than that, he and Emma are still naked.

 

“Um,” he mutters. He feels strange, muzzy-headed and drowsy. His body is heavy and moving seems like a monumental effort. “Did… what…?”

 

Emma smiles. “Hey,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

 

He thinks about that for a long moment. “Good? I… I’m not sure what happened there.”

 

“Me either,” she says, “but your glow was amazing. I’ve never seen it do that before.”

 

Deacon sighs. “Hey, if you’re going to keep talking about this whole ‘glow’ thing could you maybe fill me in a little? It’s just frustrating not knowing what you’re talking about.”

 

Emma gives him a long, thoughtful look. “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll tell you some of it. Enough for you to get a general idea. I don’t think it’s something you can ever truly understand unless you’ve experienced it for yourself. But later - that’s really not a pillow talk conversation.”

 

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Deacon says. 

 

“I know,” Emma replies. “Don’t worry. I just have to figure out how to explain it.”

 

MacCready is having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He tugs Deacon’s arm a little more firmly around his waist and then takes Emma’s hand, tucking it against his chest. She smiles at him and kisses his forehead. 

 

They’re quiet for a bit, and then Deacon asks, “So, um… this is going to be a thing, now? Us doing this?”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says. “It’s going to be a thing.”

 

Deacon doesn’t answer, but MacCready can feel the curve of his smile against his shoulder.

 

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s more to their story. Deacon still needs to learn to trust them enough to tell them about his past. MacCready needs to figure out how Duncan fits into all this, if the cure even worked. And of course, Emma needs to face the reality of who Shaun is now, and make some hard choices. Fallout isn’t known for happy endings. But right now, they have hope that it’s going to be okay. Right now, they’re happy. I’d like to leave them there, at least for a while.


End file.
